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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519144" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Why This Volume Is So Thin</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In youth I dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, <br>Of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar <br>To verses of my own,—a stout attempt <br>To hold communion with the Evening Star <br>I wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. <br>Ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.—<br>O Hesperus! O happy star! to bend <br>O'er Helen's bosom in the tranced west, <br>To match the hours heave by upon her breast, <br>And at her parted lip for dreams attend— <br>If dawn defraud thee, how shall I be deemed, <br>Who house within that bosom, and am dreamed?<br>For weeks I thought these lines remarkable; <br>For weeks I put on airs and called myself <br>A bard: till on a day, as it befell, <br>I took a small green Moxon from the shelf <br>At random, opened at a casual place, <br>And found my young illusions face to face<br>With this:—'Still steadfast, still unchangeable, <br>Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast <br>To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, <br>Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; <br>Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, <br>And so live ever,—or else swoon to death.'<br>O gulf not to be crossed by taking thought! <br>O heights by toil not to be overcome! <br>Great Keats, unto your altar straight I brought <br>My speech, and from the shrine departed dumb. <br>—And yet sometimes I think you played it hard <br>Upon a rather hopeful minor bard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Arthur+Quiller-Couch">Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519144" data-title="Why This Volume Is So Thin de Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch" data-description="In youth I dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, 
Of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar 
To verses of my own,—a stout attempt 
To hold communion with the Evening Star 
I wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. 
Ah me! how trippingly those las..."></div>
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