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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538877" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Half Of Life Gone</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The days have slain the days,<br>and the seasons have gone by<br>And brought me the summer again;<br>and here on the grass I lie<br>As erst I lay and was glad<br>ere I meddled with right and with wrong.<br>Wide lies the mead as of old,<br>and the river is creeping along<br>By the side of the elm-clad bank<br>that turns its weedy stream;<br>And grey o’er its hither lip<br>the quivering rushes gleam.<br>There is work in the mead as of old;<br>they are eager at winning the hay,<br>While every sun sets bright<br>and begets a fairer day.<br>The forks shine white in the sun<br>round the yellow red-wheeled wain,<br>Where the mountain of hay grows fast;<br>and now from out of the lane<br>Comes the ox-team drawing another,<br>comes the bailiff and the beer,<br>And thump, thump, goes the farmer’s nag<br>o’er the narrow bridge of the weir.<br>High up and light are the clouds,<br>and though the swallows flit<br>So high o’er the sunlit earth,<br>they are well a part of it,<br>And so, though high over them,<br>are the wings of the wandering herne;<br>In measureless depths above him<br>doth the fair sky quiver and burn;<br>The dear sun, floods the land<br>as the morning falls toward noon,<br>And a little wind is awake<br>in the best of the latter June.<br>They are busy winning the hay,<br>and the life and the picture they make,<br>If I were as once I was,<br>I should deem it made for my sake;<br>For here if one need not work<br>is a place for happy rest,<br>While one’s thought wends over the world<br>north, south, and east and west.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are the men and the maids,<br>and the wives and the gaffers grey<br>Of the fields I know so well,<br>and but little changed are they<br>Since I was a lad amongst them;<br>and yet how great is the change!<br>Strange are they grown unto me;<br>yea I to myself am strange.<br>Their talk and their laughter mingling<br>with the music of the meads<br>Has now no meaning to me<br>to help or to hinder my needs,<br>So far from them have I drifted.<br>And yet amidst of them goes<br>A part of myself, my boy,<br>and of pleasure and pain he knows,<br>And deems it something strange,<br>when he is other than glad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo now! the woman that stoops<br>and kisses the face of the lad,<br>And puts a rake in his hand<br>and laughs in his laughing face.<br>Whose is the voice that laughs<br>in the old familiar place?<br>Whose should it be but my love’s,<br>if my love were yet on the earth?<br>Could she refrain from the fields<br>where my joy and her joy had birth,<br>When I was there and her child,<br>on the grass that knew her feet<br>’Mid the flowers that led her on<br>when the summer eve was sweet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, no, it is she no longer;<br>never again can she come<br>And behold the hay-wains creeping<br>o’er the meadows of her home;<br>No more can she kiss her son<br>or put the rake in his hand<br>That she handled a while agone<br>in the midst of the haymaking band.<br>Her laughter is gone and her life;<br>there is no such thing on the earth,<br>No share for me then in the stir,<br>no share in the hurry and mirth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nay, let me look and believe<br>that all these will vanish away,<br>At least when the night has fallen,<br>and that she will be there ’mid the hay,<br>Happy and weary with work,<br>waiting and longing for love.<br>There will she be, as of old,<br>when the great moon hung above,<br>And lightless and dead was the village,<br>and nought but the weir was awake;<br>There will she rise to meet me,<br>and my hands will she hasten to take,<br>And thence shall we wander away,<br>and over the ancient bridge<br>By many a rose-hung hedgerow,<br>till we reach the sun-burnt ridge<br>And the great trench digged by the Romans:<br>there then awhile shall we stand,<br>To watch the dawn come creeping<br>o’er the fragrant lovely land,<br>Till all the world awaketh,<br>and draws us down, we twain,<br>To the deeds of the field and the fold<br>and the merry summer’s gain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah thus, only thus shall I see her,<br>in dreams of the day or the night,<br>When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow<br>to remember past delight.<br>She is gone. She was and she is not;<br>there is no such thing on the earth<br>But e’en as a picture painted;<br>and for me there is void and dearth<br>That I cannot name or measure.<br>Yet for me and all these she died,<br>E’en as she lived for awhile,<br>that the better day might betide.<br>Therefore I live, and I shall live<br>till the last day’s work shall fail.<br>Have patience now but a little<br>and I will tell you the tale<br>Of how and why she died,<br>and why I am weak and worn,<br>And have wandered away to the meadows<br>and the place where I was born;<br>But here and to-day I cannot;<br>for ever my thought will stray<br>To that hope fulfilled for a little<br>and the bliss of the earlier day.<br>Of the great world’s hope and anguish<br>to-day I scarce can think;<br>Like a ghost, from the lives of the living<br>and their earthly deeds I shrink.<br>I will go adown by the water<br>and over the ancient bridge,<br>And wend in our footsteps of old<br>till I come to the sun-burnt ridge,<br>And the great trench digged by the Romans;<br>and thence awhile will I gaze,<br>And see three teeming counties<br>stretch out till they fade in the haze;<br>And in all the dwellings of man<br>that thence mine eyes shall see,<br>What man as hapless as I am<br>beneath the sun shall be?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O fool, what words are these?<br>Thou hast a sorrow to nurse,<br>And thou hast been bold and happy;<br>but these, if they utter a curse,<br>No sting it has and no meaning,<br>it is empty sound on the air.<br>Thy life is full of mourning,<br>and theirs so empty and bare,<br>That they have no words of complaining;<br>nor so happy have they been<br>That they may measure sorrow<br>or tell what grief may mean.<br>And thou, thou hast deeds to do,<br>and toil to meet thee soon;<br>Depart and ponder on these<br>through the sun-worn afternoon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Morris">William Morris</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=538877" data-title="The Half Of Life Gone de William Morris" data-description="The days have slain the days,
and the seasons have gone by
And brought me the summer again;
and here on the grass I lie
As erst I lay and was glad
ere I meddled with right and with wrong.
Wide lies the mead as of old,
and the river is creeping alo..."></div>
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