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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421204" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sixth Sunday After Epiphany</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are, who darkling and alone,<br> Would wish the weary night were gone,<br> Though dawning morn should only show<br> The secret of their unknown woe:<br> Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain<br> To ease them of doubt's galling chain:<br> &quot;Only disperse the cloud,&quot; they cry,<br>&quot;And if our fate be death, give light and let us die.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet<br> To profit by Thy chastenings sweet,<br> For Thou wouldst have us linger still<br> Upon the verge of good or ill.<br> That on Thy guiding hand unseen<br> Our undivided hearts may lean,<br> And this our frail and foundering bark<br>Glide in the narrow wake of Thy beloved ark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Tis so in war--the champion true<br> Loves victory more when dim in view<br> He sees her glories gild afar<br> The dusky edge of stubborn war,<br> Than if the untrodden bloodless field<br> The harvest of her laurels yield;<br> Let not my bark in calm abide,<br>But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Tis so in love--the faithful heart<br> From her dim vision would not part,<br> When first to her fond gaze is given<br> That purest spot in Fancy's heaven,<br> For all the gorgeous sky beside,<br> Though pledged her own and sure to abide:<br> Dearer than every past noon-day<br>That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So have I seen some tender flower<br> Prized above all the vernal bower,<br> Sheltered beneath the coolest shade,<br> Embosomed in the greenest glade,<br> So frail a gem, it scarce may bear<br> The playful touch of evening air;<br> When hardier grown we love it less,<br>And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide<br> Worth all the changeful year beside?<br> The last-born babe, why lies its part<br> Deep in the mother's inmost heart?<br> But that the Lord and Source of love<br> Would have His weakest ever prove<br> Our tenderest care--and most of all<br>Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan's thrall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> So be it, Lord; I know it best,<br> Though not as yet this wayward breast<br> Beat quite in answer to Thy voice,<br> Yet surely I have made my choice;<br> I know not yet the promised bliss,<br> Know not if I shall win or miss;<br> So doubting, rather let me die,<br>Than close with aught beside, to last eternally.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What is the Heaven we idly dream?<br> The self-deceiver's dreary theme,<br> A cloudless sun that softly shines,<br> Bright maidens and unfailing vines,<br> The warrior's pride, the hunter's mirth,<br> Poor fragments all of this low earth:<br> Such as in sleep would hardly soothe<br>A soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What is the Heaven our God bestows?<br> No Prophet yet, no Angel knows;<br> Was never yet created eye<br> Could see across Eternity;<br> Not seraph's wing for ever soaring<br> Can pass the flight of souls adoring,<br> That nearer still and nearer grow<br>To the unapproached Lord, once made for them so low.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth,<br> And self-accused of sin and sloth,<br> They live and die; their names decay,<br> Their fragrance passes quite away;<br> Like violets in the freezing blast<br> No vernal steam around they cast. -<br> But they shall flourish from the tomb,<br>The breath of God shall wake them into odorous bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Then on the incarnate Saviour's breast,<br> The fount of sweetness, they shall rest,<br> Their spirits every hour imbued<br> More deeply with His precious blood.<br> But peace--still voice and closed eye<br> Suit best with hearts beyond the sky,<br> Hearts training in their low abode,<br>Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.</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=421204" data-title="Sixth Sunday After Epiphany de John Keble" data-description="There are, who darkling and alone,
 Would wish the weary night were gone,
 Though dawning morn should only show
 The secret of their unknown woe:
 Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain
 To ease them of doubt's galling chain:
 &quot;Only disperse th..."></div>
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