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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506750" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Toward the Close</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506750" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Time grows upon us until we exhaust <br>Hope's possibilities, and then we die <br>Who thus of life each make a holocaust <br>Till all we have in nature is put by. <br>No one survives himself, and none can so <br>Reclaim the sentiment of youth that he <br>Would like a fallen leaf re-budded grow <br>On the bare bough of joy's mortality. <br>Oh! in what charms may death himself reveal <br>When the life-instinct turns at last to him <br>For supreme succour, for the power to heal <br>That sickness of our days when all grows dim! <br>More fragrant then than roses, sweeter far, <br>The airs that come from the old darkness are.</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=Robert+Crawford">Robert Crawford</a></strong></div>

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