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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421165" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>First Sunday After Christmas</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis true, of old the unchanging sun<br> His daily course refused to run,<br> The pale moon hurrying to the west<br> Paused at a mortal's call, to aid<br> The avenging storm of war, that laid<br>Seven guilty realms at once on earth's defiled breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> But can it be, one suppliant tear<br> Should stay the ever-moving sphere?<br> A sick man's lowly-breathed sigh,<br> When from the world he turns away,<br> And hides his weary eyes to pray,<br>Should change your mystic dance, ye wanderers of the sky?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We too, O Lord, would fain command,<br> As then, Thy wonder-working hand,<br> And backward force the waves of Time,<br> That now so swift and silent bear<br> Our restless bark from year to year;<br>Help us to pause and mourn to Thee our tale of crime.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Bright hopes, that erst the bosom warmed,<br> And vows, too pure to be performed,<br> And prayers blown wide by gales of care; -<br> These, and such faint half-waking dreams,<br> Like stormy lights on mountain streams,<br>Wavering and broken all, athwart the conscience glare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> How shall we 'scape the o'erwhelming Past?<br> Can spirits broken, joys o'ercast,<br> And eyes that never more may smile: -<br> Can these th' avenging bolt delay,<br> Or win us back one little day<br>The bitterness of death to soften and beguile?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Father and Lover of our souls!<br> Though darkly round Thine anger rolls,<br> Thy sunshine smiles beneath the gloom,<br> Thou seek'st to warn us, not confound,<br> Thy showers would pierce the hardened ground<br>And win it to give out its brightness and perfume.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Thou smil'st on us in wrath, and we,<br> E'en in remorse, would smile on Thee,<br> The tears that bathe our offered hearts,<br> We would not have them stained and dim,<br> But dropped from wings of seraphim,<br>All glowing with the light accepted love imparts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Time's waters will not ebb, nor stay;<br> Power cannot change them, but Love may;<br> What cannot be, Love counts it done.<br> Deep in the heart, her searching view<br> Can read where Faith is fixed and true,<br>Through shades of setting life can see Heaven's work begun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O Thou, who keep'st the Key of Love,<br> Open Thy fount, eternal Dove,<br> And overflow this heart of mine,<br> Enlarging as it fills with Thee,<br> Till in one blaze of charity<br>Care and remorse are lost, like motes in light divine;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Till as each moment wafts us higher,<br> By every gush of pure desire,<br> And high-breathed hope of joys above,<br> By every secret sigh we heave,<br> Whole years of folly we outlive,<br>In His unerring sight, who measures Life by Love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keble">John Keble</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=421165" data-title="First Sunday After Christmas de John Keble" data-description="'Tis true, of old the unchanging sun
 His daily course refused to run,
 The pale moon hurrying to the west
 Paused at a mortal's call, to aid
 The avenging storm of war, that laid
Seven guilty realms at once on earth's defiled breast.

 But can it..."></div>
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