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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536342" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXVII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536342" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I will release my soul of argument.<br>He that would love must follow with shut eyes.<br>My reason of the years was discontent,<br>My treasure for all hope a vain surmise.<br>I will have done with wisdom's sophistries,<br>Her insolence of wit. What man shall say<br>He comfort takes in the short hour that dies,<br>Because he knew it mortal yesterday?<br>The tree of knowledge bears a bitter fruit.<br>This is that other tree, whose branches hold<br>Fair store of faith, peace, pity absolute,<br>And deeds of virtue for a world grown cold.<br>If by its fruits the tree of life be known,<br>Here is a truth undreamed of Solomon.</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=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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