Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421176" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fourth Sunday In Lent</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Nature tries her finest touch,<br> Weaving her vernal wreath,<br>Mark ye, how close she veils her round,<br>Not to be traced by sight or sound,<br> Nor soiled by ruder breath?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who ever saw the earliest rose<br> First open her sweet breast?<br>Or, when the summer sun goes down,<br>The first soft star in evening's crown<br> Light up her gleaming crest?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fondly we seek the dawning bloom<br> On features wan and fair,<br>The gazing eye no change can trace,<br>But look away a little space,<br> Then turn, and lo! 'tis there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there's a sweeter flower than e'er<br> Blushed on the rosy spray -<br>A brighter star, a richer bloom<br>Than e'er did western heaven illume<br> At close of summer day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;<br> Love gentle, holy, pure;<br>But tenderer than a dove's soft eye,<br>The searching sun, the open sky,<br> She never could endure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">E'en human Love will shrink from sight<br> Here in the coarse rude earth:<br>How then should rash intruding glance<br>Break in upon HER sacred trance<br> Who boasts a heavenly birth?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So still and secret is her growth,<br> Ever the truest heart,<br>Where deepest strikes her kindly root<br>For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,<br> Least knows its happy part.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God only, and good angels, look<br> Behind the blissful screen -<br>As when, triumphant o'er His woes,<br>The Son of God by moonlight rose,<br> By all but Heaven unseen:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As when the holy Maid beheld<br> Her risen Son and Lord:<br>Thought has not colours half so fair<br>That she to paint that hour may dare,<br> In silence best adored.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven<br> The earnest of our bliss,<br>Of many a chosen witness telling,<br>On many a happy vision dwelling,<br> Sings not a note of this.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, truest image of the Christ,<br> Old Israel's long-lost son,<br>What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,<br>He called his conscious brethren near,<br> Would weep with them alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He could not trust his melting soul<br> But in his Maker's sight -<br>Then why should gentle hearts and true<br>Bare to the rude world's withering view<br> Their treasure of delight!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No--let the dainty rose awhile<br> Her bashful fragrance hide -<br>Rend not her silken veil too soon,<br>But leave her, in her own soft noon,<br> To flourish and abide.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=421176" data-title="Fourth Sunday In Lent de John Keble" data-description="When Nature tries her finest touch,
 Weaving her vernal wreath,
Mark ye, how close she veils her round,
Not to be traced by sight or sound,
 Nor soiled by ruder breath?

Who ever saw the earliest rose
 First open her sweet breast?
Or, when the sum..."></div>
</div>
</div>