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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=448028" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spicewood</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=448028" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky,<br>In moist unchimneyed places, in a wind,<br>That whips it all before, and all behind,<br>Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high,<br>It is the first, the homeliest thing of all--<br>At sight of it, that lad that by it fares,<br>Whistles afresh his foolish, town-caught airs--<br>A thing so honey-colored, and so tall!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=448028" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It is as though the young Year, ere he pass,<br>To the white riot of the cherry tree,<br>Would fain accustom us, or here, or there,<br>To his new sudden ways with bough and grass,<br>So starts with what is humble, plain to see,<br>And all familiar as a cup, a chair.</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=Lizette+Woodworth+Reese">Lizette Woodworth Reese</a></strong></div>

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