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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339722" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Sermon</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Midsummer, 1867.<br>We have heard many sermons, you and I,<br>And many more may hear,<br>When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,<br>With folded palms and faces meek and grave;—<br>But few like this one, dear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We ofttimes watch together 'fore the veil,<br>With reverent, gleaming eyes,<br>While priestly hands are busy with the folds,—<br>And pant to see the holy place, which holds<br>Life's dreadest mysteries.<br>We watch weak, foolish fingers straying o'er<br>The broidered boss, to grasp<br>Vaguely at some small end of thread, and twist<br>And shake the glorious pattern into mist,<br>And leave us nought to clasp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We watch, with eyes dilated, some strong hand<br>Of nerve and muscle, trace<br>The grand, faint outlines, erewhile undefined<br>To our slow earth-enfolded sense, and find<br>The great design—the shadow from behind—<br>Dawning before our face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But seldom do we see, dear, you and I,<br>The pattern melt in light,<br>And all the shine flow out on us, uncheck'd—<br>With eyes of soul and not of intellect—<br>As we did see that night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a summer-night—the sun was low,<br>But overlaid the sea,<br>And made gold-crystals of the wet sea-sand,<br>And drew our shadows short upon the strand<br>That stretched out shallowly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a Sunday night—far off we heard<br>The solemn vesper-chime<br>From some grey wind-swept steeple by the shore,<br>Chanting “For ev-er-more! for ev-er-more!”<br>While the deep sea beat time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We wandered far that night, dear, you and I,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We wandered out of reach,—<br>Until the golden distances grew grey,<br>And narrowed in the glory, as it lay<br>'Mid horizon and beach.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We wandered far along the lonely waste,<br>Where seldom foot had trod;<br>The world behind us dared not to intrude—<br>The summer silence and the solitude<br>Were only filled with God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We sat down on the sand there, you and I,<br>We sat down awed and dumb,<br>And watched the fiery circle fall and fall<br>Through solemn folds of purple, and the small<br>Soft ripples go and come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was not wind enough to stir the reeds<br>Around us, nor to curl<br>The sheeny, dimpled surface of the deep;<br>The waters murmured low, as half in sleep,<br>With measured swish and swirl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two sea-birds came and dabbled in the pools,<br>And cried their plaintive cry,<br>As their strong wings swept o'er us as we sat<br>(No profanation of the stillness that,<br>But added sanctity).</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They flecked the crimson shallows with black streaks,<br>Low-wheeling to and fro,<br>Crying their bold, sweet cry, as knowing well<br>It was a place where God, not man, did dwell—<br>A father, not a foe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *<br>Ah, we hear many sermons, you and I—<br>The poor words fall and drown;<br>But this, whose speech was silence, this has stirred<br>The stream of years,—and aye it will be heard<br>As when that sun went down!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ada+Cambridge">Ada Cambridge</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339722" data-title="A Sermon de Ada Cambridge" data-description="Midsummer, 1867.
We have heard many sermons, you and I,
And many more may hear,
When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,
With folded palms and faces meek and grave;—
But few like this one, dear.

We ofttimes watch together 'fore the veil,
With reve..."></div>
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