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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=355944" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Peal Of Bells</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=355944" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Strike the bells wantonly,<br>Tinkle tinkle well;<br>Bring me wine, bring me flowers,<br>Ring the silver bell.<br>All my lamps burn scented oil,<br>Hung on laden orange-trees,<br>Whose shadowed foliage is the foil<br>To golden lamps and oranges.<br>Heap my golden plates with fruit,<br>Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; <br>Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;<br>Shut out showers from summer hours—<br>Silence that complaining lute—<br>Shut out thinking, shut out pain,<br>From hours that cannot come again.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=355944" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Strike the bells solemnly,<br>Ding dong deep:<br>My friend is passing to his bed,<br>Fast asleep;<br>There's plaited linen round his head, <br>While foremost go his feet—<br>His feet that cannot carry him.<br>My feast's a show, my lights are dim;<br>Be still, your music is not sweet,—<br>There is no music more for him:<br>His lights are out, his feast is done;<br>His bowl that sparkled to the brim<br>Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;<br>My blood is chill, his blood is cold;<br>His death is full, and mine begun.</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=Christina+Georgina+Rossetti">Christina Georgina Rossetti</a></strong></div>