<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536450" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Glad bird, I do bewail thee,<br>Thy song it was so sweet<br>That Earth looked up to hail thee<br>Till wings grew to her feet.<br>But, ah! thy mate is lying dead<br>Among the new--mown hay,<br>And a fowler comes to jail thee<br>Where thou shalt pine away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bright butterfly, I wail thee,<br>So dainty was thy wing,<br>So bravely didst regale thee<br>On every honied thing.<br>But thou art all too lightly clad<br>For any month but May,<br>And Autumn rains shall trail thee<br>And wash thy paint away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweet childhood, I bewail thee.<br>Thy smile it shifteth ever<br>As the ship that thou dost sail thee<br>Adown the running river.<br>But ah! life's river runneth fast<br>And forward lies the sea,<br>And what shall then avail thee<br>Thy laughter and thy glee?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And youth, I most bewail thee,<br>Thy purpose was so great,<br>But the fools that did assail thee<br>Were stronger than thy fate,<br>And thy heart it was so ruddy red<br>That every archer knew<br>Where he might best impale thee<br>And drive his arrows through.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</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=536450" data-title="Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="Glad bird, I do bewail thee, Thy song it was so sweet That Earth looked up to hail thee Till wings grew to her feet. But, ah! thy mate is lying dead Among the new--mown hay, And a fowler comes to jail thee Where thou shalt pine away. Bright butte..."></div> </div> </div>

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