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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=432167" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Nature and Nature</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=432167" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">We'll fret, my love. That's what we do.<br>The sun will rise. The birds will gather, <br>Singing. Final flowers will appear on<br>Plants around the yard, and leaves will<br>Take on wild colors. All the world that<br>Is ours, the chilly air, the dry, unyielding<br>Ground, and all of the above, are here.<br>They're real and splendid things, but we<br>Will dwell on what we've read and lists<br>Of tasks we've yet to do, and fear a future<br>We've imagined will be worse than what<br>We know, and fret. That's what we do.</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=Lawrence+Beck">Lawrence Beck</a></strong></div>

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