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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523155" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Home, Wounded</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wheel me into the sunshine,<br>Wheel me into the shadow,<br>There must be leaves on the woodbine,<br>Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Wheel me down to the meadow,<br>Down to the little river,<br>In sun or in shadow<br>I shall not dazzle or shiver,<br>I shall be happy anywhere,<br>Every breath of the morning air<br>Makes me throb and quiver.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Stay wherever you will,<br>By the mount or under the hill,<br>Or down by the little river:<br>Stay as long as you please,<br>Give me only a bud from the trees,<br>Or a blade of grass in morning dew,<br>Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,<br>I could look on it for ever.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Wheel, wheel thro' the sunshine,<br>Wheel, wheel thro' the shadow;<br>There must be odours round the pine,<br>There must be balm of breathing kine.<br>Somewhere down in the meadow.<br>Must I choose? Then anchor me there<br>Beyond the beckoning poplars, where<br>The larch is snooding her flowery hair<br>With wreaths of morning shadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Among the thicket hazels of the brake<br>Perchance some nightingale doth shake<br>His feathers, and the air is full of song;<br>In those old days when I was young and strong,<br>He used to sing on yonder garden tree,<br>Beside the nursery.<br>Ah. I remember how I loved to wake,<br>And find him singing on the self-same bough<br>(I know it even now)<br>Where, since the flit of bat,<br>In ceaseless voice he sat,<br>Trying the spring night over, like a tune,<br>Beneath the vernal moon;<br>And while I listed long,<br>Day rose, and still he sang,<br>And all his stanchless song,<br>As something falling unaware,<br>Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,<br>Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang-<br>Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Is it too early? I hope not.<br>But wheel me to the ancient oak,<br>On this side of the meadow;<br>Let me hear the raven's croak<br>Loosened to an amorous note<br>In the hollow shadow.<br>Let me see the winter snake<br>Thawing all his frozen rings<br>On the bank where the wren sings.<br>Let me hear the little bell,<br>Where the red-wing, top-mast high,<br>Looks toward the northern sky,<br>And jangles his farewell.<br>Let us rest by the ancient oak,<br>And see his net of shadow,<br>His net of barren shadow,<br>Like those wrestlers' nets of old,<br>Hold the winter dead and cold,<br>Hoary winter, white and cold,<br>While all is green in the meadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And when you've rested, brother mine,<br>Take me over the meadow;<br>Take me along the level crown<br>Of the bare and silent down,<br>And stop by the ruined tower.<br>On its green scarp, by and by,<br>I shall smell the flowering thyme,<br>On its wall the wall-flower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In the tower there used to be<br>A solitary tree.<br>Take me there, for the dear sake<br>Of those old days wherein I loved to lie<br>And pull the melilote,<br>And look across the valley to the sky,<br>And hear the joy that filled the warm wide hour<br>Bubble from the thrush's throat,<br>As into a shining mere<br>Rills some rillet trebling clear,<br>And speaks the silent silver of the lake.<br>There mid cloistering tree-roots, year by year,<br>The hen-thrush sat, and he, her lief and dear,<br>Among the boughs did make<br>A ceaseless music of her married time,<br>And all the ancient stones grew sweet to hear,<br>And answered him in the unspoken rhyme<br>Of gracious forms most musical<br>That tremble on the wall<br>And trim its age with airy fantasies<br>That flicker in the sun, and hardly seem<br>As if to be beheld were all,<br>And only to our eyes<br>They rise and all,<br>And fall and rise,<br>Sink down like silence, or a-sudden stream<br>As wind-blown on the wind as streams a wedding-chime.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But you are wheeling me while I dream,<br>And we've almost reached the meadow!<br>You may wheel me fast thro' the sunshine,<br>You may wheel me fast thro' the shadow,<br>But wheel me slowly, brother mine,<br>Thro' the green of the sappy meadow;<br>For the sun, these days have been so fine,<br>Must have touched it over with celandine,<br>And the southern hawthorn, I divine,<br>Sheds a muffled shadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>There blows<br>The first primrose,<br>Under the bare bank roses:<br>There is but one,<br>And the bank is brown,<br>But soon the children will come down,<br>The ringing children come singing down,<br>To pick their Easter posies,<br>And they'll spy it out, my beautiful,<br>Among the bare brier-roses;<br>And when I sit here again alone,<br>The bare brown bank will be blind and dull,<br>Alas for Easter posies!<br>But when the din is over and gone,<br>Like an eye that opens after pain,<br>I shall see my pale flower shining again;<br>Like a fair star after a gust of rain<br>I shall see my pale flower shining again;<br>Like a glow-worm after the rolling wain<br>Hath shaken darkness down the lane<br>I shall see my pale flower shining again;<br>And it will blow here for two months more,<br>And it will blow here again next year,<br>And the year past that, and the year beyond;<br>And thro' all the years till my years are o'er<br>I shall always find it here.<br>Shining across from the bank above,<br>Shining up from the pond below,<br>Ere a water-fly wimple the silent pond,<br>Or the first green weed appear.<br>And I shall sit here under the tree,<br>And as each slow bud uncloses,<br>I shall see it brighten and brighten to me,<br>From among the leafing brier-roses,<br>The leaning leafing roses,<br>As at eve the leafing shadows grow,<br>And the star of light and love<br>Draweth near o'er her airy glades,<br>Draweth near thro' her heavenly shades,<br>As a maid thro' a myrtle grove.<br>And the flowers will multiply,<br>As the stars come blossoming over the sky,<br>The bank will blossom, the waters blow,<br>Till the singing children hitherward hie<br>To gather May-day posies;<br>And the bank will be bare wherever they go,<br>As dawn, the primrose-girl, goes by,<br>And alas for heaven's primroses!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Blare the trumpet, and boom the gun,<br>But, oh, to sit here thus in the sun,<br>To sit here, feeling my work is done,<br>While the sands of life so golden run,<br>And I watch the children's posies,<br>And my idle heart is whispering<br>'Bring whatever the years may bring,<br>The flowers will blossom, the birds will sing,<br>And there'll always be primroses.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Looking before me here in the sun,<br>I see the Aprils one after one,<br>Primrosed Aprils one by one,<br>Primrosed Aprils on and on,<br>Till the floating prospect closes<br>In golden glimmers that rise and rise,<br>And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,<br>And perhaps-too far for mortal eyes-<br>New years of fresh primroses,<br>Years of earth's primroses,<br>Springs to be, and springs for me<br>Of distant dim primroses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>My soul lies out like a basking hound,<br>A hound that dreams and dozes;<br>Along my life my length I lay,<br>I fill to-morrow and yesterday,<br>I am warm with the suns that have long since set,<br>I am warm with the summers that are not yet,<br>And like one who dreams and dozes<br>Softly afloat on a sunny sea,<br>Two worlds are whispering over me,<br>And there blows a wind of roses<br>From the backward shore to the shore before,<br>From the shore before to the backward shore,<br>And like two clouds that meet and pour<br>Each thro' each, till core in core<br>A single self reposes,<br>The nevermore with the evermore<br>Above me mingles and closes;<br>As my soul lies out like the basking hound,<br>And wherever it lies seems happy ground,<br>And when, awakened by some sweet sound,<br>A dreamy eye uncloses,<br>I see a blooming world around,<br>And I lie amid primroses-<br>Years of sweet primroses,<br>Springs of fresh primroses,<br>Springs to be, and springs for me<br>Of distant dim primroses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh to lie a-dream, a-dream,<br>To feel I may dream and to know you deem<br>My work is done for ever,<br>And the palpitating fever<br>That gains and loses, loses and gains,<br>And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains<br>Cooled at once by that blood-let<br>Upon the parapet;<br>And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavour<br>Solved and quit by no more fine<br>Than these limbs of mine,<br>Spanned and measured once for all<br>By that right hand I lost,<br>Bought up at so light a cost<br>As one bloody fall<br>On the soldier's bed,<br>And three days on the ruined wall<br>Among the thirstless dead.<br>Oh to think my name is crost<br>From duty's muster-roll;<br>That I may slumber tho' the clarion call,<br>And live the joy of an embodied soul<br>Free as a liberated ghost.<br>Oh to feel a life of deed<br>Was emptied out to feed<br>That fire of pain that burned so brief a while-<br>That fire from which I come, as the dead come<br>Forth from the irreparable tomb,<br>Or as a martyr on his funeral pile<br>Heaps up the burdens other men do bear<br>Thro' years of segregated care,<br>And takes the total load<br>Upon his shoulders broad,<br>And steps from earth to God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh to think, thro' good or ill,<br>Whatever I am you'll love me still;<br>Oh to think, tho' dull I be,<br>You that are so grand and free,<br>You that are so bright and gay,<br>Will pause to hear me when I will,<br>As tho' my head were gray;<br>And tho' there's little I can say,<br>Each will look kind with honour while he hears.<br>And to your loving ears<br>My thoughts will halt with honourable scars,<br>And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight<br>Of what it doth relate<br>(Like that blind comrade-blinded in the wars-<br>Who bore the one-eyed brother that was lame),<br>You'll remember 'tis the same<br>That cried 'Follow me,'<br>Upon a summer's day;<br>And I shall understand with unshed tears<br>This great reverence that I see,<br>And bless the day-and Thee,<br>Lord God of victory!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And she,<br>Perhaps oh even she<br>May look as she looked when I knew her<br>In those old days of childish sooth,<br>Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.<br>I will not seek nor sue her,<br>For I'm neither fonder nor truer<br>Than when she slighted my love-lorn youth,<br>My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,<br>And I only lived to rue her.<br>But I'll never love another,<br>And, in spite of her lovers and lands,<br>She shall love me yet, my brother!<br>As a child that holds by his mother,<br>While his mother speaks his praises,<br>Holds with eager hands,<br>And ruddy and silent stands<br>In the ruddy and silent daisies,<br>And hears her bless her boy,<br>And lifts a wondering joy,<br>So I'll not seek nor sue her,<br>But I'll leave my glory to woo her,<br>And I'll stand like a child beside,<br>And from behind the purple pride<br>I'll lift my eyes unto her,<br>And I shall not be denied.<br>And you will love her, brother dear,<br>And perhaps next year you'll bring me here<br>All thro' the balmy April-tide,<br>And she will trip like spring by my side,<br>And be all the birds to my ear.<br>And here all three we'll sit in the sun,<br>And see the Aprils one by one,<br>Primrosed Aprils on and on,<br>Till the floating prospect closes<br>In golden glimmers that rise and rise,<br>And perhaps, are gleams of Paradise,<br>And perhaps, too far for mortal eyes,<br>New springs of fresh primroses,<br>Springs of earth's primroses,<br>Springs to be and springs for me,<br>Of distant dim primroses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</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=523155" data-title="Home, Wounded de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="Wheel me into the sunshine,
Wheel me into the shadow,
There must be leaves on the woodbine,
Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow?


Wheel me down to the meadow,
Down to the little river,
In sun or in shadow
I shall not dazzle or shiver,
I shall b..."></div>
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