<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519221" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>April On Waggon Hill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lad, and can you rest now,<br>There beneath your hill!<br>Your hands are on your breast now,<br>But is your heart so still?<br>'Twas the right death to die, lad,<br>A gift without regret,<br>But unless truth's a lie, lad,<br>You dream of Devon yet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay, ay, the year's awaking,<br>The fire's among the ling,<br>The beechen hedge is breaking,<br>The curlew's on the wing;<br>Primroses are out, lad,<br>On the high banks of Lee,<br>And the sun stirs the trout, lad;<br>From Brendon to the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know what's in your heart, lad,---<br>The mare he used to hunt---<br>And her blue market-cart, lad,<br>With posies tied in front---<br>We miss them from the moor road,<br>They're getting old to roam,<br>The road they're on's a sure road<br>And nearer, lad, to home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your name, the name they cherish?<br>'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:<br>But stone and all may perish<br>With little loss to you.<br>While fame's fame you're Devon, lad,<br>The Glory of the West;<br>Till the roll's called in heaven, lad,<br>You may well take your rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Henry+Newbolt">Sir Henry Newbolt</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=519221" data-title="April On Waggon Hill de Sir Henry Newbolt" data-description="Lad, and can you rest now, There beneath your hill! Your hands are on your breast now, But is your heart so still? 'Twas the right death to die, lad, A gift without regret, But unless truth's a lie, lad, You dream of Devon yet. Ay, ay, the year's..."></div> </div> </div>

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