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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421166" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>First Sunday After Easter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">First Father of the holy seed,<br>If yet, invoked in hour of need,<br> Thou count me for Thine own<br>Not quite an outcast if I prove,<br>(Thou joy'st in miracles of love),<br> Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon Thine altar's horn of gold<br>Help me to lay my trembling hold,<br> Though stained with Christian gore; -<br>The blood of souls by Thee redeemed,<br>But, while I roved or idly dreamed,<br> Lost to be found no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For oft, when summer leaves were bright,<br>And every flower was bathed in light,<br> In sunshine moments past,<br>My wilful heart would burst away<br>From where the holy shadow lay,<br> Where heaven my lot had cast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,<br>A Hermit in a silent cell,<br> While, gaily sweeping by,<br>Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain,<br>And marshalled all his gallant train<br> In the world's wondering eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would have joined him--but as oft<br>Thy whispered warnings, kind and soft,<br> My better soul confessed.<br>&quot;My servant, let the world alone -<br>Safe on the steps of Jesus' throne<br> Be tranquil and be blest.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Seems it to thee a niggard hand<br>That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand,<br> The ark to touch and bear,<br>With incense of pure heart's desire<br>To heap the censer's sacred fire,<br> The snow-white Ephod wear?&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why should we crave the worldling's wreath,<br>On whom the Savour deigned to breathe,<br> To whom His keys were given,<br>Who lead the choir where angels meet,<br>With angels' food our brethren greet,<br> And pour the drink of Heaven?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When sorrow all our heart would ask,<br>We need not shun our daily task,<br> And hide ourselves for calm;<br>The herbs we seek to heal our woe<br>Familiar by our pathway grow,<br> Our common air is balm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Around each pure domestic shrine<br>Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,<br> Our hearths are altars all;<br>The prayers of hungry souls and poor,<br>Like armed angels at the door,<br> Our unseen foes appal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alms all around and hymns within -<br>What evil eye can entrance win<br> Where guards like these abound?<br>If chance some heedless heart should roam,<br>Sure, thought of these will lure it home<br> Ere lost in Folly's round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O joys, that sweetest in decay,<br>Fall not, like withered leaves, away,<br> But with the silent breath<br>Of violets drooping one by one,<br>Soon as their fragrant task is done,<br> Are wafted high in death!</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=421166" data-title="First Sunday After Easter de John Keble" data-description="First Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invoked in hour of need,
 Thou count me for Thine own
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy'st in miracles of love),
 Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!

Upon Thine altar's horn of gold
Help me to lay my tremb..."></div>
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