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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421193" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Second Sunday After Christmas</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And wilt thou hear the fevered heart<br> To Thee in silence cry?<br>And as th' inconstant wildfires dart<br> Out of the restless eye,<br>Wilt thou forgive the wayward though<br>By kindly woes yet half untaught<br>A Saviours right, so dearly bought,<br> That Hope should never die?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer<br> Has reached Thee from the wild,<br>Since the lorn mother, wandering there,<br> Cast down her fainting child,<br>Then stole apart to weep and die,<br>Nor knew an angel form was nigh,<br>To show soft waters gushing by,<br> And dewy shadows mild.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou wilt--for Thou art Israel's God,<br> And Thine unwearied arm<br>Is ready yet with Moses' rod,<br> The hidden rill to charm<br>Out of the dry unfathomed deep<br>Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,<br>Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap<br> Their waves in rude alarm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These moments of wild wrath are Thine -<br> Thine, too, the drearier hour<br>When o'er th' horizon's silent line<br> Fond hopeless fancies cower,<br>And on the traveller's listless way<br>Rises and sets th' unchanging day,<br>No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,<br> On earth no sheltering bower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,<br> To turn the bitter pool<br>Into a bright and breezy lake,<br> This throbbing brow to cool:<br>Till loft awhile with Thee alone<br>The wilful heart be fain to own<br>That He, by whom our bright hours shone,<br> Our darkness best may rule.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The scent of water far away<br> Upon the breeze is flung;<br>The desert pelican to-day<br> Securely leaves her young,<br>Reproving thankless man, who fears<br>To journey on a few lone years,<br>Where on the sand Thy step appears,<br> Thy crown in sight is hung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou, who did sit on Jacob's well<br> The weary hour of noon,<br>The languid pulses Thou canst tell,<br> The nerveless spirit tune.<br>Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst<br>The cry that owned Thy dying thirst,<br>To Thee we turn, our Last and First,<br> Our Sun and soothing Moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From darkness, here, and dreariness<br> We ask not full repose,<br>Only be Thou at hand, to bless<br> Our trial hour of woes.<br>Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid<br>By the clear rill and palmy shade?<br>And see we not, up Earth's dark glade,<br> The gate of Heaven unclose?</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=421193" data-title="Second Sunday After Christmas de John Keble" data-description="And wilt thou hear the fevered heart
 To Thee in silence cry?
And as th' inconstant wildfires dart
 Out of the restless eye,
Wilt thou forgive the wayward though
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Saviours right, so dearly bought,
 That Hope shoul..."></div>
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