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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=581908" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wanted — A Theme</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight, <br>Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light; <br>The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come; <br>And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage home. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell; <br>I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell! <br>Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon, <br>Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I Could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods, <br>The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the water falls and floods; <br>But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat, <br>That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right, <br>All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light; <br>But though 't were all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake, <br>And they'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could write of the West, mother, — tell many a back woods tale; <br>But 'Mary Clarets' long ago chanted on that happy trail. <br>And ' went it with a rush,' mother, as all the world agree, <br>And made ' a powerful sight' of fun, and left no laugh for me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life, — <br>I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife; <br>But I 've avowed 'peace principles,' and may not call them back. <br>So I cannot write of war, mother, — I must take another tack. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The terrible might do, mother, — some wild, unearthly story; <br>I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory. <br>But then that 'Raven' there, mother, above that 'chamber-door,' <br>I asked him if 't would be a hit, — quoth the raven, 'Never more!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed, <br>And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast; <br>But they'd say I was a fanatic, a-battling with weak straws <br>Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fooleries of the beau-monde, mother, should I write on as I feel, <br>The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel; <br>And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall, — <br>They'd vow I was a sour old maid, — and that were worse than all! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I think I'll off to bed, mother, — I 'm tired, and then it's late; <br>The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait! <br>So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose, <br>For I love a morning doze, mother, — I love a morning doze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Grace+Greenwood">Grace Greenwood</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=581908" data-title="Wanted — A Theme de Grace Greenwood" data-description="THE spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight, 
Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light; 
The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come; 
And earth is very fair, mother, far round our co..."></div>
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