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=523215" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To 1862</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(In Prospect Of War With America)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh worst of years, by what signs shall we know<br>So dire an advent? Let thy New-Year's-day<br>Be night. At the east gate let the sun lay<br>His crown: as thro' a temple hung with woe<br>Unkinged by mortal sorrow let him go<br>Down the black noon, whose wan astrology<br>Peoples the skyey windows with dismay,<br>To that dark charnel in the west where lo!<br>The mobled Moon! For so, at the dread van<br>Of wars like ours, the great humanity<br>In things not human should be wrought and wrung<br>Into our sight, and creatures without tongue<br>By the dumb passion of a visible cry<br>Confess the coming agony of Man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even now, this spring in winter, like some young<br>Fair Babe of Empire, ere his birth-bells ring,<br>Shewn to the people by a hoary King,<br>Stirs me with omens. What fine shock hath sprung<br>The fairy mines of buried life among<br>The clods? Above spring flow'rs a bird of spring<br>Makes February of the winds that sing<br>Yule-chants: while March, thro' Christmas brows, rimehung,<br>Looks violets: and on yon grave-like knoll<br>A girlish season sheds her April soul.<br>Ah is this day that strains the exquisite<br>Strung sense to finer fibres of delight<br>An aimless sport of Time? Or do its show'rs,<br>Smiles, birds and blooms betray the heart of conscious Pow'rs?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Methinks the innumerable eyes of ours<br>That must untimely close in endless night<br>Take in one sum their natural due of light:<br>Feather'd like summer birds their unlived hours<br>Sing to them: at their prison pitying flow'rs<br>Push thro' the bars a Future red and white,<br>Purple and gold: for them, for them, yon bright<br>Star, as an eye, exstils and fills, and pours<br>Its tear, and fills and weeps, to fill and weep:<br>For them that Moon from her wild couch on high<br>Now stretches arms that wooed Endymion,<br>Now swooning back against the sky stares down<br>Like some white mask of ancient tragedy<br>With orbless lids that neither wake nor sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hark! a far gun, like all war's guns in one,<br>Booms. At that sign, from the new monument<br>Of him who held the plough whereto he bent<br>His royal sword, and meekly laboured on,<br>Till when the verdict of mankind had gone<br>Against our peace, he, waiving our consent,<br>Carried the appeal to higher courts, and went<br>Himself to plead-She whom he loved and won,<br>The Queen of Earth and Sea,-her unrisen head<br>Bowed in a sorrowy cloud-takes her slow way<br>To her great throne, and, lifting up her day<br>Upon her land, and to that flag unfurl'd<br>Where wave the honour and the chastity<br>Of all our men and maidens living and dead,<br>Points westward, and thus breaks the silence of the world:-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Since it is War, my England, and nor I<br>On you nor you on me have drawn down one<br>Drop of this bloody guilt, God's Will be done,<br>Here upon earth in woe, in bliss on high!<br>Peace is but mortal and to live must die,<br>And, like that other creature of the sun,<br>Must die in fire. Therefore, my English, on!<br>And burn it young again with victory!<br>For me, in all your joys I have been first<br>And in this woe my place I still shall keep,<br>I am the earliest widow that must weep,<br>My children the first orphans. The divine<br>Event of all God knows: but come the worst<br>It cannot leave your homes more dark than mine.'</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=523215" data-title="To 1862 de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="(In Prospect Of War With America)

I

Oh worst of years, by what signs shall we know
So dire an advent? Let thy New-Year's-day
Be night. At the east gate let the sun lay
His crown: as thro' a temple hung with woe
Unkinged by mortal sorrow let him ..."></div>
</div>
</div>