Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523166" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lady Constance</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My Love, my Lord,<br>I think the toil of glorious day is done.<br>I see thee leaning on thy jewelled sword,<br>And a light-hearted child of France<br>Is dancing to thee in the sun,<br>And thus he carols in his dance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'Oh, a gallant sans peur<br>Is the merry chasseur,<br>With his fanfaron horn and his rifle ping-pang!<br>And his grand havresack<br>Of gold on his back,<br>His pistol cric-crac!<br>And his sword cling-clang!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Oh, to see him blithe and gay<br>From some hot and bloody day,<br>Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows 'au rang,'<br>With a wheel and a whirl<br>And a wheeling waltzing girl,<br>And his bow, 'place aux dames!' and his oath 'feu et sang!'<br>And his hop and his fling<br>Till his gold and silver ring<br>To the clatter and the clash of his sword cling-clang!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But hark,<br>Thro' the dark,<br>Up goes the well-known shout!<br>The drums beat the turn out!<br>Cut short your coarting, Monsieur l' Amant!<br>Saddle! mount! march! trot!<br>Down comes the storm of shot,<br>The foe is at the charge! En avant!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>His jolly havresack<br>Of gold is on his back,<br>Hear his pistol cric-crac! hear his rifle ping-pang!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Vive l' Empereur!<br>And where's the Chasseur?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He's in<br>Among the din<br>Steel to steel cling-clang!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And thou within the doorway of thy tent<br>Leanest at ease with careless brow unbent,<br>Watching the dancer in as pleased a dream<br>As if he were a gnat i' the evening gleam,<br>And thou and I were sitting side by side<br>Within the happy bower<br>Where oft at this same hour<br>We watched them the sweet year I was a bride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>My Love, my Lord,<br>Leaning so grandly on thy jewelled sword,<br>Is there no thought of home to whisper thee,<br>None can relieve the weary guard I keep,<br>None wave the flag of breathing truce for me,<br>Nor sound the hours to slumber or to weep?<br>Once in a moon the bugle breaks thy rest,<br>I count my days by trumpets and alarms:<br>Thou liest down in thy warcloak and art blest,<br>While I, who cannot sleep but in thine arms,<br>Wage night and day fresh fields unknown to fame,<br>Arm, marshal, march, charge, fight, fall, faint, and die,<br>Know all a soldier can endure but shame,<br>And every chance of warfare but to fly.<br>I do not murmur at my destiny:<br>It can but go with love, with whom it came,<br>And love is like the sun-his light is sweet,<br>And sweet his shadow-welcome both to me!<br>Better for ever to endure that hurt<br>Which thou canst taste but once than once to lie<br>At ease when thou hast anguish. Better I<br>Be often sad when thou art gay than gay<br>One moment of thy sorrow. Tho' I pray<br>Too oft I shall win nothing of the sky<br>But my unfilled desire and thy desert<br>Can take it and still lack. Oh, might I stay<br>At the shut gates of heaven! that so I meet<br>Each issuing fate, and cling about his feet<br>And melt the dreadful purpose of his eye,<br>And not one power pass unimpleaded by<br>Whose bolt might be for thee! Aye, love is sweet<br>In shine or shade! But love hath jealousy,<br>That knowing but so little thinks so much!<br>And I am jealous of thee even with such<br>A fatal knowledge. For I wot too well<br>In the set season that I cannot tell<br>Death will be near thee. This thought doth deflour<br>All innocence from time. I dare not say<br>'Not now,' but for the instant cull the hour,<br>And for the hour reap all the doubtful day,<br>And for the day the year: and so, forlorn,<br>From morn till night, from startled night till morn,<br>Like a blind slave I bear thine heavy ill<br>Till thy time comes to take it: come when 't will<br>The broken slave will bend beneath it still.</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>
<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=523166" data-title="Lady Constance de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="My Love, my Lord,
I think the toil of glorious day is done.
I see thee leaning on thy jewelled sword,
And a light-hearted child of France
Is dancing to thee in the sun,
And thus he carols in his dance.


'Oh, a gallant sans peur
Is the merry chass..."></div>
</div>
</div>