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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Moors</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only <br>Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells, <br>But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely, <br>The vast enchantment of her presence dwells. <br>Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather, <br>Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees-- <br>If you and I were only there together, <br>Free from the weight of all your garden's trees! </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow, <br>Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best; <br>I love the plover's wail, the cleft hill's shadow, <br>The sun-browned grass that is the skylark's nest. <br>Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader, <br>You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown, <br>And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar, <br>Than greet the moor's wide heaven-on-earth alone.</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=Edith+Nesbit">Edith Nesbit</a></strong></div>

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