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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=533857" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Exile's Death</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of what does this poor exile dream?<br>His garden plot, his dewy mead,<br>Perchance his tools, perchance his team,—<br>But ever of murdered France indeed;<br>Her memory makes his sad heart bleed.<br>While those that slew her clutch their pay,<br>The exile pleads with bitter cry:<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The workman sees his workshop still,<br>And the poor peasant his loved cot;<br>Sweet homely flowers on the window-sill,<br>Or the bright hearth (when flowers bloom not)<br>Smiling on all things unforgot,—<br>E'en flickering on that nook whence aye<br>His grandmam's bed erst met his eye.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In springtime swarm the honey bees;<br>Pert sparrows, quick heaven's gifts to share.<br>Blithe 'mong the barley crop one sees;<br>Sad little rogues, sans though, or care<br>They rob, as though they eagles were.<br>An old-world chateau, ivied, grey,<br>Crumbles the snug farmstead anigh.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With file and mallet one can live<br>And keep one's wife and youngster's bright;<br>One works from faintest dawn till eve,<br>And in the toil finds true delight.<br>O sacred labour! life and light!<br>Our fathers toiled till, wearied, they<br>Resigned the tools with a smile or sigh.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On holidays, the artisan,<br>His tools and cares all cheerily stowing,<br>Singing brave songs which bless or ban,<br>Cap jaunty on brow, blouse loosely flowing,<br>Forth to some festal haunt is going.<br>One eats a rabbit (so they say!)<br>And quaffs sour wine of Hungary.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Sundays aye the peasant strong<br>Sings out for Jeanne or Jacqueline:<br>'Now sweetheart, quickly come along,—<br>I warrant me, with ribbons fine,—<br>To dance on the hill till stars bright shine.'<br>The sabot hath a tricksy way<br>Of making music in July.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mournfully aye the exiles muse,<br>With spirit,—alas! nigh broken down.<br>Still they regard the darkling yews<br>That on green peaceful graves still frown.<br>One dreams of Germany, and one<br>Of poor bruised Poland, hapless prey,<br>And one of beauteous Italy.<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">An exile, tired of hopeless pain,<br>Lay dying; calm, scarce sad, looked he.<br>'Why die?' I gently asked him then.<br>He answered, 'Is life sweet to thee?'<br>Then smiled, 'I shall at length be free!<br>Farewell, I die. O France, for aye<br>Thee shall the tyrant crucify?'<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I die because I see no longer<br>The fields, erewhile the world to me.<br>I die, because I hear no longer<br>The birds, my whole world's melody.<br>My soul is where I cannot be.<br>'Twixt four rough planks my body lay,<br>And bury me,—I care not, I!'<br>One cannot live with bread away;<br>Afar from home, one's fain—how fain!—to die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Victor+Hugo">Victor Hugo</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=533857" data-title="An Exile's Death de Victor Hugo" data-description="Of what does this poor exile dream?
His garden plot, his dewy mead,
Perchance his tools, perchance his team,—
But ever of murdered France indeed;
Her memory makes his sad heart bleed.
While those that slew her clutch their pay,
The exile pleads ..."></div>
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