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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348602" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At Seventeen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348602" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You were a child, and liked me, yesterday.<br>To-day you are a woman, and perhaps<br>Those softer eyes betoken the sweet lapse<br>Of liking into loving: who shall say?<br>Only I know that there can be for us<br>No liking more, nor any kisses now,<br>But they shall wake sweet shame upon your brow<br>Sweetly, or in a rose calamitous.<br> <br>Trembling upon the verge of some new dawn<br>You stand, as if awakened out of sleep,<br>And it is I who cried to you, 'Arise!'<br>I who would fain call back the child that's gone,<br>And what you lost for me would have you keep,<br>Fearing to meet the woman of your eyes.</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=Arthur+Symons">Arthur Symons</a></strong></div>

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