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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540130" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Farmer Of Tilsbury Vale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'TIS not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,<br>The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,<br>And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,<br>That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;<br>His staff is a sceptre--his grey hairs a crown;<br>And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak<br>Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,--'mid the joy<br>Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy, <br>That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain<br>That his life hath received, to the last will remain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Farmer he was; and his house far and near<br>Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer:<br>How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale<br>Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,<br>His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing:<br>And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,<br>All caught the infection--as generous as he. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,--<br>The fields better suited the ease of his soul:<br>He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,<br>The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,<br>Familiar with him, made an inn of his door:<br>He gave them the best that he had; or, to say<br>What less may mislead you, they took it away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:<br>The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: <br>At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,<br>His means are run out,--he must beg, or must borrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the neighbours he went,--all were free with their money;<br>For his hive had so long been replenished with honey,<br>That they dreamt not of dearth;--He continued his rounds,<br>Knocked here--and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,<br>And something, it might be, reserved for himself:<br>Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,<br>Turned his back on the country--and off like a bird. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You lift up your eyes!--but I guess that you frame<br>A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;<br>In him it was scarcely a business of art,<br>For this he did all in the 'ease' of his heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To London--a sad emigration I ween--<br>With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green;<br>And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,<br>As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,--<br>Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; <br>But nature is gracious, necessity kind,<br>And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout;<br>Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;<br>You would say that each hair of his beard was alive,<br>And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes<br>About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;<br>But often his mind is compelled to demur,<br>And you guess that the more then his body must stir. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,<br>Like one whose own country's far over the sea;<br>And Nature, while through the great city he hies,<br>Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This gives him the fancy of one that is young,<br>More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue;<br>Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,<br>And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?<br>Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; <br>With a look of such earnestness often will stand,<br>You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours<br>Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,<br>Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made<br>Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw,<br>Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw;<br>With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,<br>And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way,<br>Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay;<br>He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,<br>And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,--<br>If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there.<br>The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,<br>And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid,<br>May one blade of grass spring up over thy head; <br>And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,<br>Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q>
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The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
His sta..."></div>
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