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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421248" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Twenty-Third Sunday After Trinity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,<br> The line of yellow light dies fast away<br>That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun<br> Falls on the moor the brief November day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,<br> And Echo hide good-night from every glade;<br>Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves float<br> Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How like decaying life they seem to glide!<br> And yet no second spring have they in store,<br>But where they fall, forgotten to abide<br> Is all their portion, and they ask no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,<br> A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,<br>The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring,<br> And all be vernal rapture as of old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,<br> In all the world of busy life around<br>No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky,<br> No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Man's portion is to die and rise again -<br> Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part<br>With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain,<br> As his when Eden held his virgin heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice<br> Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life<br>Only the first renewed--the heathen's choice,<br> A round of listless joy and weary strife.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,<br> Tho' brightened oft by dear Affection's kiss; -<br>Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?<br> But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,<br> Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne<br>On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart<br> O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven,<br> And fish, living shafts that pierce the main,<br>And stars that shoot through freezing air at even -<br> Who but would follow, might he break his chain?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm<br> Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free<br>As his transfigured Lord with lightning form<br> And snowy vest--such grace He won for thee,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn,<br> And led through boundless air thy conquering road,<br>Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born,<br> Might fearless follow to their blest abode.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But first, by many a stern and fiery blast<br> The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine,<br>And many a gale of keenest woe be passed,<br> Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till every limb obey the mounting soul,<br> The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given.<br>He who the stormy heart can so control,<br> The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.</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=421248" data-title="Twenty-Third Sunday After Trinity de John Keble" data-description="Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
 The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun
 Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,
 And Echo hide good-night ..."></div>
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