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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=456074" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Robin Redbreast</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=456074" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill <br>The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower <br>Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower <br>In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. <br>Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill <br>Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, <br>Have in adversity's inclement hour <br>Abandoned us to bleak November's chill. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=456074" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But hearken! Yonder russet bird among <br>The crimson clusters of the homely thorn <br>Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- <br>A blending of sweet hope and resignation: <br>Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, <br>One friend becomes its last, best consolation.</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=Mathilde+Blind">Mathilde Blind</a></strong></div>