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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=473295" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=473295" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,<br>Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,<br>Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love<br>Than terrors of red flame and thundering.<br>The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:<br>A bird at evening flying to its nest<br>Tells me of One who had no place of rest:<br>I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.<br>Come rather on some autumn afternoon,<br>When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,<br>And the fields echo to the gleaner's song,<br>Come when the splendid fulness of the moon<br>Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,<br>And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.</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=Oscar+Wilde">Oscar Wilde</a></strong></div>

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