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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341419" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Love’s Harvest</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341419" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Nay, do not quarrel with the seasons, dear,<br>Nor make an enemy of friendly Time.<br>The fruit and foliage of the failing year<br>Rival the buds and blossoms of its prime.<br>Is not the harvest moon as round and bright<br>As that to which the nightingales did sing?<br>And thou, that call'st thyself my satellite,<br>Wilt seem in Autumn all thou art in Spring.<br>When steadfast sunshine follows fitful rain,<br>And gleams the sickle where once passed the plough,<br>Since tender green hath grown to mellow grain,<br>Love then will gather what it scattereth now,<br>And, like contented reaper, rest its head<br>Upon the sheaves itself hath harvested.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Alfred+Austin">Alfred Austin</a></strong></div>

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