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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374698" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>We Talk of Taxes...</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374698" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; <br>Well, such you are, -- but well enough we know <br>How thick about us root, how rankly grow <br>Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, <br>That flourish through neglect, and soon must send <br>Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow <br>Our steady senses; how such matters go <br>We are aware, and how such matters end. <br>Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; <br>With lovers such as we forevermore <br>Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere <br>Receives the Table's ruin through her door, <br>Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, <br>Lets fall the coloured book upon the floor.</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=Edna+St.+Vincent+Millay">Edna St. Vincent Millay</a></strong></div>

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