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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348608" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At Toledo</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348608" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The little stones chuckle against the fields:<br>'We are so small: God will not think of us; <br>We are so old already, we have seen<br>So many generations blunt their ploughs,<br>Tilling the fields we lie in; and we dream<br>Of our first sleep among the ancient hills.'<br>The grass laughs, thinking: 'I am born and die,<br>And born and die, and know not birth or death,<br>Only the going on of the green earth.'<br>The rivers pass and pass, and are the same,<br>And I, who see the beauty of the world,<br>Pass, and am not the same, or know it not,<br>And know the world no more. O is not this<br>Some horrible conspiracy of things,<br>That I have known and loved and lingered with<br>All my days through, and now they turn like hosts<br>Who have grown tired of a delaying guest? <br>They cast me out from their eternity:<br>God is in league with their forgetfulness.</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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