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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421233" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Third Sunday After Easter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well may I guess and feel<br> Why Autumn should be sad;<br> But vernal airs should sorrow heal,<br> Spring should be gay and glad:<br> Yet as along this violet bank I rove,<br> The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath,<br> I sit me down beside the hazel grove,<br>And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Like a bright veering cloud<br> Grey blossoms twinkle there,<br> Warbles around a busy crowd<br> Of larks in purest air.<br> Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone,<br> Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime,<br> When nature sings of joy and hope alone,<br>Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor let the proud heart say,<br> In her self-torturing hour,<br> The travail pangs must have their way,<br> The aching brow must lower.<br> To us long since the glorious Child is born<br> Our throes should be forgot, or only seem<br> Like a sad vision told for joy at morn,<br>For joy that we have waked and found it but a dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Mysterious to all thought<br> A mother's prime of bliss,<br> When to her eager lips is brought<br> Her infant's thrilling kiss.<br> O never shall it set, the sacred light<br> Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze,<br> In the eternal distance blending bright<br>Her darling's hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No need for her to weep<br> Like Thracian wives of yore,<br> Save when in rapture still and deep<br> Her thankful heart runs o'er.<br> They mourned to trust their treasure on the main,<br> Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide:<br> Welcome to her the peril and the pain,<br>For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> She joys that one is born<br> Into a world forgiven,<br> Her Father's household to adorn,<br> And dwell with her in Heaven.<br> So have I seen, in Spring's bewitching hour,<br> When the glad Earth is offering all her best,<br> Some gentle maid bend o'er a cherished flower,<br>And wish it worthier on a Parent's heart to rest.</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=421233" data-title="Third Sunday After Easter de John Keble" data-description="Well may I guess and feel
 Why Autumn should be sad;
 But vernal airs should sorrow heal,
 Spring should be gay and glad:
 Yet as along this violet bank I rove,
 The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath,
 I sit me down beside the hazel grove..."></div>
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