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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=419466" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pleasures Of Fancy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=419466" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,<br>And through this little gate that claps and bangs<br>Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?<br>Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs<br>Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.<br>The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs<br>That's slept half an eternity; in fear<br>The herdsman may have left his startled cows<br>For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;<br>Here too the woodman on his wallet laid<br>For pillow may have slept an hour away;<br>And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,<br>Here sat and mused half some long summer day<br>While some old shepherd listened to the lay.</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=John+Clare">John Clare</a></strong></div>

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