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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519249" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Moonset</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;<br>Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:<br>A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,<br>Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;<br>But John it appears has none of your grins and winks;<br>Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks:<br>Words come once in a mile, and always dry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon<br>We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right,<br>Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night,<br>Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Strangely near she seems, and terribly great:<br>The world is dead: why are we travelling still?<br>Nightmare silence grips my struggling will;<br>We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'When you come to consider the moon,' says John at last,<br>And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand;<br>'And then there's some will say there's never a hand<br>That made the world!'<br>A flick, and the gates are passed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Out of the dim magical moonlit park,<br>Out to the workday road and wider skies:<br>There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise,<br>And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.</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>
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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=519249" data-title="Moonset de Sir Henry Newbolt" data-description="Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;
Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:
A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,
Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.

Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;
But John it appears has none of your..."></div>
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