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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536461" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>How Grey The World Was</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536461" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">How grey the world was with its memories,<br>How dark even this gay room where the motes run!<br>How black these curtains, thick with murder cries,<br>These chairs, this floor with things slain in the sun!<br>'Twas here I strangled love, a year ago,<br>And hid it 'neath these pillows drenched in blood,<br>As a mad mother her sweet babe of woe,<br>Too strong to die, too fair, which shrieks aloud.<br>How black and bare and bitter the world was<br>Just yesterday! To--day, this room, dear Heaven,<br>What laughters fill it! what light footsteps pass!<br>See, the white chairs dance round me pleasure--driven,<br>And these sad pillows, where I wept, blab out<br>The news that you are here, in psalm and shout!</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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