<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536245" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Miners</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a whispering in my hearth,<br>A sigh of the coal.<br>Grown wistful of a former earth<br>It might recall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I listened for a tale of leaves<br>And smothered ferns,<br>Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives<br>Before the fawns.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer<br>From Time's old cauldron,<br>Before the birds made nests in summer,<br>Or men had children.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the coals were murmuring of their mine,<br>And moans down there<br>Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men<br>Writhing for air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,<br>Bones without number.<br>For many hearts with coal are charred,<br>And few remember.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought of all that worked dark pits<br>Of war, and died<br>Digging the rock where Death reputes<br>Peace lies indeed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Comforted years will sit soft-chaired<br>In rooms of amber;<br>The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered<br>By our lifes' ember.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The centuries will burn rich loads<br>With which we groaned,<br>Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,<br>While songs are crooned.<br>But they will not dream of us poor lads<br>Left in the ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen">Wilfred Owen</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=536245" data-title="Miners de Wilfred Owen" data-description="There was a whispering in my hearth, A sigh of the coal. Grown wistful of a former earth It might recall. I listened for a tale of leaves And smothered ferns, Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives Before the fawns. My fire might show steam-phant..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black