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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=519166" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Autumn Thistles</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=519166" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The morning sky is white with mist, the earth<br> White with the inspiration of the dew.<br> The harvest light is on the hills anew,<br>And cheer in the grave acres' fruitful girth.<br>Only in this high pasture is there dearth,<br> Where the gray thistles crowd in ranks austere,<br> As if the sod, close-cropt for many a year,<br>Brought only bane and bitterness to birth.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=519166" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But in the crisp air's amethystine wave<br> How the harsh stalks are washed with radiance now,<br> How gleams the harsh turf where the crickets lie<br>Dew-freshened in their burnished armour brave!<br> Since earth could not endure nor heaven allow<br> Aught of unlovely in the morn's clear eye.</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=Sir+Charles+George+Douglas+Roberts">Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts</a></strong></div>

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