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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=416746" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Robert Burns Wilson</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=416746" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">What intuition named thee?--Through what thrill<br>Of the awed soul came the command divine<br>Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine<br>Should palpitate with his whose raptures will<br>Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill<br>Their undulating ways up through the fine<br>Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line<br>Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still<br>The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised<br>His voice therein, and, quit of every stress<br>Of earthly ache and longing and despair,<br>Knew certainly each simple thing he praised<br>Was no less worthy, for its lowliness,<br>Than any joy of all the glory There.</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=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a></strong></div>

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