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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360812" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The World’s Doing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=360812" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">ONE scarce would think that we can be the same<br>Who used, in those first childish Junes, to creep<br>With held breath through the underwood, and leap<br>Outside into the sun. Since this mine aim<br>Took me unto itself, the joy which came<br>Into my eyes at once sits hushed and deep;<br>Nor even the sorrow moans, but falls asleep<br>And has ill dreams. For you—your very name<br>Seems altered in mine ears, and cannot send<br>Heat through my heart, as in those days afar<br>Wherein we lived indeed with the real life.<br>Yet why should we feel shame, my dear sweet friend?<br>Are they most honoured who without a scar<br>Pace forth, all trim and fresh, from the splashed strife?</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=Dante+Gabriel+Rossetti">Dante Gabriel Rossetti</a></strong></div>

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