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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421195" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Second Sunday After Epiphany</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The heart of childhood is all mirth:<br> We frolic to and fro<br>As free and blithe, as if on earth<br> Were no such thing as woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if indeed with reckless faith<br> We trust the flattering voice,<br>Which whispers, &quot;Take thy fill ere death,<br> Indulge thee and rejoice;&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too surely, every setting day,<br> Some lost delight we mourn;<br>The flowers all die along our way<br> Till we, too, die forlorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such is the world's gay garish feast,<br> In her first charming bowl<br>Infusing all that fires the breast,<br> And cheats the unstable soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And still, as loud the revel swells,<br> The fevered pulse beats higher,<br>Till the seared taste from foulest wells<br> Is fain to slake its fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unlike the feast of heavenly love<br> Spread at the Saviour's word<br>For souls that hear His call, and prove<br> Meet for His bridal board.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why should we fear, youth's draught of joy<br> If pure would sparkle less?<br>Why should the cup the sooner cloy,<br> Which God hath deigned to bless?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen<br> Along each bounding vein,<br>Still whispering glorious things unseen? -<br> Faith makes the vision plain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The world would kill her soon: but Faith<br> Her daring dreams will cherish,<br>Speeding her gaze o'er time and death<br> To realms where nought can perish.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or is it Love, the dear delight<br> Of hearts that know no guile,<br>That all around see all things bright<br> With their own magic smile?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The silent joy that sinks so deep,<br> Of confidence and rest,<br>Lulled in a father's arms to sleep,<br> Clasped to a mother's breast?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who, but a Christian, through all life<br> That blessing may prolong?<br>Who, through the world's sad day of strife,<br> Still chant his morning song?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fathers may hate us or forsake,<br> God's foundlings then are we:<br>Mother on child no pity take,<br> But we shall still have Thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We may look home, and seek in vain<br> A fond fraternal heart,<br>But Christ hath given His promise plain<br> To do a Brother's part.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say,<br> The heavenward flame annoy:<br>The Saviour cannot pass away,<br> And with Him lives our joy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ever the richest, tenderest glow<br> Sets round the autumnal sun -<br>But there sight fails: no heart may know<br> The bliss when life is done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such is Thy banquet, dearest Lord;<br> O give us grace, to cast<br>Our lot with Thine, to trust Thy word,<br> And keep our best till last.</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=421195" data-title="Second Sunday After Epiphany de John Keble" data-description="The heart of childhood is all mirth:
 We frolic to and fro
As free and blithe, as if on earth
 Were no such thing as woe.

But if indeed with reckless faith
 We trust the flattering voice,
Which whispers, &quot;Take thy fill ere death,
 Indulge th..."></div>
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