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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Old Squire</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I LIKE the hunting of the hare <br> Better than that of the fox; <br>I like the joyous morning air, <br> And the crowing of the cocks. <br> <br>I like the calm of the early fields,<br> The ducks asleep by the lake, <br>The quiet hour which Nature yields <br> Before mankind is awake. <br> <br>I like the pheasants and feeding things <br> Of the unsuspicious morn; <br>I like the flap of the wood-pigeon’s wings <br> As she rises from the corn. <br> <br>I like the blackbird’s shriek, and his rush <br> From the turnips as I pass by, <br>And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,<br> For her young ones cannot fly. <br> <br>I like these things, and I like to ride, <br> When all the world is in bed, <br>To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, <br> And where the sun grows red. <br> <br>The beagles at my horse heels trot <br> In silence after me; <br>There ’s Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, <br> Old Slut and Margery,— <br> <br>A score of names well used, and dear, <br> The names my childhood knew; <br>The horn, with which I rouse their cheer, <br> Is the horn my father blew. <br> <br>I like the hunting of the hare <br> Better than that of the fox; <br>The new world still is all less fair <br> Than the old world it mocks. <br> <br>I covet not a wider range <br> Than these dear manors give; <br>I take my pleasures without change,<br> And as I lived I live. <br> <br>I leave my neighbors to their thought; <br> My choice it is, and pride, <br>On my own lands to find my sport, <br> In my own fields to ride. <br> <br>The hare herself no better loves <br> The field where she was bred, <br>Than I the habit of these groves, <br> My own inherited. <br> <br>I know my quarries every one, <br> The meuse where she sits low; <br>The road she chose to-day was run <br> A hundred years ago. <br> <br>The lags, the gills, the forest ways, <br> The hedgerows one and all, <br>These are the kingdoms of my chase, <br> And bounded by my wall; <br> <br>Nor has the world a better thing, <br> Though one should search it round, <br>Than thus to live one’s own sole king,<br> Upon one’s own sole ground. <br> <br>I like the hunting of the hare; <br> It brings me, day by day, <br>The memory of old days as fair, <br> With dead men passed away.<br> <br>To these, as homeward still I ply <br> And pass the churchyard gate, <br>Where all are laid as I must lie, <br> I stop and raise my hat. <br> <br>I like the hunting of the hare;<br> New sports I hold in scorn. <br>I like to be as my fathers were, <br> In the days e’er I was born.</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>
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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=536662" data-title="The Old Squire de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="I LIKE the hunting of the hare 
 Better than that of the fox; 
I like the joyous morning air, 
 And the crowing of the cocks. 
 
I like the calm of the early fields,
 The ducks asleep by the lake, 
The quiet hour which Nature yields 
 Before manki..."></div>
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