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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536414" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XLIII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536414" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">How shall I tell my fall? The life of man<br>Is but a tale of tumbles, this way thrown<br>At his beginning by mere haste of plan<br>In the first gaping ditch with flowers o'ergrown;<br>Anon more cautious for his wounded knees,<br>Yet falling still through much expectancy;<br>And so to age, the goal of his heart's ease,<br>Stumbling in blindness on he knows not why.<br>How shall I tell it? As the poets tell<br>Who wrap love in a garment of vain light?<br>Or plainly naked, the poor child of Hell<br>And laughter that it is and starless night?<br>I like the truth best. Yet this love, sad thing,<br>Mired and defiled, I saw it once a king.</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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