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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454870" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Père Lalemant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I LIFT the Lord on high,<br>Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see<br>The small birds of the forest lingering by<br>And making melody.<br>These are mine acolytes and these my choir,<br>And this mine altar in the cool green shade,<br>Where the wild soft-eyed does draw nigh<br>Wondering, as in the byre<br>Of Bethlehem the oxen heard Thy cry<br>And saw Thee, unafraid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My boatmen sit apart,<br>Wolf-eyed, wolf-sinewed, stiller than the trees.<br>Help me, O Lord, for very slow of heart<br>And hard of faith are these.<br>Cruel are they, yet Thy children. Foul are they,<br>Yet wert Thou born to save them utterly.<br>Then make me as I pray,<br>Just to their hates, kind to their sorrows, wise<br>After their speech, and strong before their free<br>Indomitable eyes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do the French lilies reign<br>O'er Mont Royal and Stadacona still ?<br>Up the St. Lawrence comes the spring again,<br>Crowning each southward hill<br>And blossoming pool with beauty, while I roam<br>Far from the perilous folds that are my home,<br>There where we built St. Ignace for our needs,<br>Shaped the rough roof tree, turned the first sweet sod,<br>St. Ignace and St. Louis, little beads<br>On the rosary of God. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pines shall Thy pillars be,<br>Fairer than those Sidonian cedars brought<br>By Hiram out of Tyre, and each birch-tree<br>Shines like a holy thought.<br>But come no worshippers; shall I confess,<br>St. Francis-like, the birds of the wilderness?<br>O, with Thy love my lonely head uphold.<br>A wandering shepherd I, who hath no sheep;<br>A wandering soul, who hath no scrip, nor gold,<br>Nor anywhere to sleep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My hour of rest is done; <br>On the smooth ripple lifts the long canoe; <br>The hemlocks murmur sadly as the sun <br>Slants his dim arrows through. <br>Whither I go I know not, nor the way, <br>Dark with strange passions, vexed with heathen charms, <br>Holding I know not what of life or death; <br>Only be Thou beside me day by day, <br>Thy rod my guide and comfort, underneath <br>Thy everlasting arms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Marjorie+Lowry+Christie+Pickthall">Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall</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=454870" data-title="Père Lalemant de Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall" data-description="I LIFT the Lord on high,
Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see
The small birds of the forest lingering by
And making melody.
These are mine acolytes and these my choir,
And this mine altar in the cool green shade,
Where the wild soft-eyed do..."></div>
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