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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421242" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tuesday In Easter Week</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou first-born of the year's delight,<br> Pride of the dewy glade,<br>In vernal green and virgin white,<br> Thy vestal robes, arrayed:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis not because thy drooping form<br> Sinks graceful on its nest,<br>When chilly shades from gathering storm<br> Affright thy tender breast;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor for yon river islet wild<br> Beneath the willow spray,<br>Where, like the ringlets of a child,<br> Thou weav'st thy circle gay;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis not for these I love thee dear -<br> Thy shy averted smiles<br>To Fancy bode a joyous year,<br> One of Life's fairy isles.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They twinkle to the wintry moon,<br> And cheer th' ungenial day,<br>And tell us, all will glisten soon<br> As green and bright as they.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is there a heart that loves the spring,<br> Their witness can refuse?<br>Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring<br> From Heaven their Easter news:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When holy maids and matrons speak<br> Of Christ's forsaken bed,<br>And voices, that forbid to seek<br> The hiving 'mid the dead,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when they say, &quot;Turn, wandering heart,<br> Thy Lord is ris'n indeed,<br>Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,<br> And to His presence speed;&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We smile in scorn: and yet we know<br> They early sought the tomb,<br>Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,<br> Lost in desponding gloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They who have sought, nor hope to find,<br> Wear not so bright a glance:<br>They, who have won their earthly mind,<br> Lees reverently advance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But where in gentle spirits, fear<br> And joy so duly meet,<br>These sure have seen the angels near,<br> And kissed the Saviour's feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye<br> Their faltering tale disdain,<br>As on their lowly couch they lie,<br> Prisoners of want and pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O guide us, when our faithless hearts<br> From Thee would start aloof,<br>Where Patience her sweet skill imparts<br> Beneath some cottage roof:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Revive our dying fires, to burn<br> High as her anthems soar,<br>And of our scholars let us learn<br> Our own forgotten lore.</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=421242" data-title="Tuesday In Easter Week de John Keble" data-description="Thou first-born of the year's delight,
 Pride of the dewy glade,
In vernal green and virgin white,
 Thy vestal robes, arrayed:

'Tis not because thy drooping form
 Sinks graceful on its nest,
When chilly shades from gathering storm
 Affright thy t..."></div>
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