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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341490" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Alfred Tennyson</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341490" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Poet! in other lands, when Spring no more<br>Gleams o'er the grass, nor in the thicket-side<br>Plays at being lost and laughs to be descried,<br>And blooms lie wilted on the orchard floor,<br>Then the sweet birds that from Ægean shore<br>Across Ausonian breakers thither hied,<br>Own April's music in their breast hath died,<br>And croft and copse resound not as before.<br>But, in this privileged Isle, this brave, this blest,<br>This deathless England, it seems always Spring.<br>Though graver wax the days, Song takes not wing.<br>In Autumn boughs it builds another nest:<br>Even from the snow we lift our hearts and sing,<br>And still your voice is heard above the rest.</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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