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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536665" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Rowfant Catalogue</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536665" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Friends had he many, neighbours next to none.<br>Rowfant and Crabbet lay few fields apart.<br>Each Sunday saw him here, his church drill done,<br>Duly stroll in to talk of books and art,<br>Entrapped, may--be, to share my modest tart,<br>Roast fowl and claret, and an evening won<br>In stealth from Sabbath bonds strange to his heart.<br>Childlike he prized these truant bursts of fun.<br>--Long years ago! It needs his wit to jog<br>Old time to life. Yet I remember well<br>Companioning him home to the hill's top<br>Keen on his books, and how he paused to tell<br>Eager the first news of this Catalogue.<br>Reading it, see, the tears come and I stop.</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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