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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540267" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Written in Germany, On One of The Coldest Days Of The Century</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A plague on your languages, German and Norse! <br>Let me have the song of the kettle; <br>And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse <br>That gallops away with such fury and force <br>On this dreary dull plate of black metal. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">See that Fly,--a disconsolate creature! perhaps <br>A child of the field or the grove; <br>And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat <br>Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, <br>And he creeps to the edge of my stove. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas! how he fumbles about the domains <br>Which this comfortless oven environ! <br>He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, <br>Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall, <br>And now on the brink of the iron. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed: <br>The best of his skill he has tried; <br>His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth <br>To the east and the west, to the south and the north; <br>But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! <br>His eyesight and hearing are lost; <br>Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; <br>And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze <br>Are glued to his sides by the frost. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No brother, no mate has he near him--while I <br>Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; <br>As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, <br>As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, <br>And woodbines were hanging above. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! <br>Thy life I would gladly sustain <br>Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds <br>Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds, <br>And back to the forests again!</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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<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=540267" data-title="Written in Germany, On One of The Coldest Days Of The Century de William Wordsworth" data-description="A plague on your languages, German and Norse! 
Let me have the song of the kettle; 
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse 
That gallops away with such fury and force 
On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 

See that Fly,--a discon..."></div>
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