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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=523193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Botanist's Vision</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=523193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The sun that in Breadalbane's lake doth fall<br>Was melting to the sea down golden Tay,<br>When a cry came along the peopled way,<br>'Sebastopol is ours!' From that wild call<br>I turned, and leaning on a time-worn wall<br>Quaint with the touch of many an ancient day,<br>The mappèd mould and mildewed marquetry<br>Knew with my focussed soul; which bent down all<br>Its sense, power, passion, to the sole regard<br>Of each green minim, as it were but born<br>To that one use. I strode home stern and hard;<br>In my hot hands I laid my throbbing head,<br>And all the living world and all the dead<br>Began a march which did not end at morn.</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=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</a></strong></div>

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