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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=509149" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Perfection</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=509149" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">THIS rose, to which each dawn anew<br>Come bees to fill their honey-sacks,<br>Though sweet in shape, and scent, and hue,<br>Perfection lacks.<br>To gain it were to crown one's toil<br>And set the very world astir:<br>Blow, Rose, make most of sap and soil,<br>Strive, Gardener!<br>Though Youth may dwell some honeyed years<br>In Arcady, most true is this —<br>There is no joy unmixed with tears,<br>No perfect bliss.<br>Though Love, on high adventure set,<br>Complete achievement may not know —<br>Reach out your white arms, Juliet!<br>Climb, Romeo!</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=Roderic+Quinn">Roderic Quinn</a></strong></div>

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