Some men there are who cannot spare <br />A single tear until they feel <br />The last cold pressure, and the heel <br />Is stamped upon the outmost layer. <br /> <br />And, waking, some will sigh to think <br />The clouds have borrowed winter's wing, <br />Sad winter, when the grasses spring <br />No more about the fountain's brink. <br /> <br />And some would call me coward fool: <br />I lay a claim to better blood, <br />But yet a heap of idle mud <br />Hath power to make me sorrowful.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-home/
