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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=426496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Song</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=426496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">When I would sing of crooked streams and fields, <br>On, on from me they stretch too far and wide, <br>And at their look my song all powerless yields, <br>And down the river bears me with its tide; <br>Amid the fields I am a child again, <br>The spots that then I loved I love the more, <br>My fingers drop the strangely scrawling pen, <br>And I remember nought but nature's lore, <br>I plunge me in the river's cooling wave, <br>Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean, <br>Now some endangered insect life to save, <br>Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses green; <br>Forever playing where a boy I played, <br>By hill and grove, by field and stream delayed.</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=Jones+Very">Jones Very</a></strong></div>

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