<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539779" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Felicity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A squalid, hideous town, where streams run black<br>With vomit of a hundred roaring mills,-<br>Hither occasion calls me; and ev'n here,<br>All in the sable reek that wantonly<br>Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn,<br>One may at least surmise the sky still blue.<br>Ev'n here, the myriad slaves of the machine<br>Deem life a boon; and here, in days far sped,<br>I overheard a kind-eyed girl relate<br>To her companions, how a favouring chance<br>By some few shillings weekly had increased<br>The earnings of her household, and she said:<br>'So now we are happy, having all we wished,'-<br>Felicity indeed! though more it lay<br>In wanting little than in winning all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Felicity indeed! Across the years<br>To me her tones come back, rebuking; me,<br>Spreader of toils to snare the wandering Joy<br>No guile may capture and no force surprise-<br>Only by them that never wooed her, won.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O curst with wide desires and spacious dreams,<br>Too cunningly do ye accumulate<br>Appliances and means of happiness,<br>E'er to be happy! Lavish hosts, ye make<br>Elaborate preparation to receive<br>A shy and simple guest, who, warned of all<br>The ceremony and circumstance wherewith<br>Ye mean to entertain her, will not come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Watson">William Watson</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=539779" data-title="Felicity de William Watson" data-description="A squalid, hideous town, where streams run black With vomit of a hundred roaring mills,- Hither occasion calls me; and ev'n here, All in the sable reek that wantonly Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn, One may at least surmise the sky sti..."></div> </div> </div>

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