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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=507062" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>1915</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=507062" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, <br>In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; <br>Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, <br>Red poppy floods of June, <br>August, and yellowing Autumn, so <br>To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, <br>And you’ve been everything. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=507062" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack <br>In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books, <br>Music, the quiet of an English wood, <br>Beautiful comrade-looks, <br>The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, <br>The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, <br>And Peace, and all that’s good.</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+Graves">Robert Graves</a></strong></div>

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