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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381256" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lane</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381256" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Some day, I think, there will be people enough<br>In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries<br>Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight<br>Broad lane where now September hides herself<br>In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.<br>To-day, where yesterday a hundred sheep<br>Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway<br>Of waters that no vessel ever sailed ...<br>It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries<br>His song. For heat it is like summer too.<br>This might be winter's quiet. While the glint<br>Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts -<br>One mile - and those bells ring, little I know<br>Or heed if time be still the same, until<br>The lane ends and once more all is the same.</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=Edward+Thomas">Edward Thomas</a></strong></div>

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