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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=523205" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Olive</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have heard a friar say<br>That the Olive learned to pray<br>In Gethsemane,-<br>A holy man was he,<br>Jacopo by name,-<br>All upon his bended knees<br>From Jerusalem<br>He crossed Kedron brook<br>And to the garden came<br>Of Gethsemane,<br>And the very olive-trees<br>Are there to this day.<br>And I would have you know,<br>For I loved to hear him speak,<br>Good Friar Jacopo!-<br>That on an Easter-week,<br>In the time long ago<br>Of bloody Pilate 'King of Rome,'<br>Lord Jesus<br>To the garden-gate did come<br>Of Gethsemane.<br>And as He came at the dear look<br>O' the Lord a sudden shudder shook<br>The wood, and wooden moans and groans<br>Allowed the silence of the stones.<br>(The stones that next day, as 'tis said,<br>Oped their mouths and spake the dead.)<br>And when He bent His sacred knees<br>The shame of limbs that could not bend<br>Suppled every bough's end<br>To a lythe<br>And pliant wythe.<br>But ere He spake a-silent stood<br>Every tree in all the wood,<br>And the silence began to fill<br>Inly, as the ears with blood<br>When the outer world is still.<br>And when He spake at the first<br>'Let this cup' did somewhat swell<br>Every twig and tip asunder,<br>Like the silence in the head<br>When the veins are nigh to burst;<br>And at the second was nothing seer<br>To stir, but all the swollen green<br>Blackened as a cloud with thunder;<br>But in the final agony,<br>When His anguish brake its bands<br>And the bloody sweat down-fell,<br>At the third 'Let this cup'<br>As He lifted up His hands<br>Black drops fell from every tree<br>And all the forest lifted up.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Lord went to Calvary-<br>Well, perhaps, for you and me,<br>Brother, who being men are fain<br>To profit by the blessed loss<br>That quivers overhead while we<br>At the foot of the cross-mast<br>With the hereditary face<br>Reckon up our selfish gain,<br>Rend his sacred weeds and cast<br>Lots for the vesture of His grace,-<br>Aye, at the dabbled foot of the Cross<br>While that dear blood doth flow.<br>The Olive cannot chaffer so,<br>Not being a man, altho'<br>Since the pallors of that hour<br>It hath kept a human power<br>And is not quite a tree;<br>Now and then<br>Round the unbelief of men<br>It lifts up praying hands,<br>Because it is so much a tree<br>And cannot tell its tale<br>Nor reach<br>To clear its knowledge into speech.<br>And whether on that awful day<br>In Gethsemane<br>There was wind,<br>Or whether because day and night<br>And day again all winds that blew<br>From the City on the height<br>Shuddered with the things they knew<br>I know not, but you shall find<br>An Almighty Memory-<br>That yearly grows and flowers and fruits<br>And strikes the blindness of its roots<br>And suckers forth, but howsoe'er<br>It blindly beat itself beyond<br>Its planted first can do no more<br>Than stretch the measure of its bond<br>And shape as it had shaped before<br>The arborous passion that can ne'er<br>Be paroled into shriving air-<br>Sicken in the leafy blood<br>And turn it deadly pale.<br>And as when a strong malady<br>Of tertian and quatertian pain,<br>Turning the cause whence it began<br>Into the woe of man,<br>By loops and conduits else too fine<br>For an incarnadine,<br>Hath shaken, shaken it from the body into space,<br>When life and health again co-reign,<br>And all youth's rosy cheer<br>Tunes every nerve and summers every vein,<br>Some crucial habit of the brain<br>Sudden repeats the unforgotten throe-</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sydney+Thompson+Dobell">Sydney Thompson Dobell</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=523205" data-title="The Olive de Sydney Thompson Dobell" data-description="I have heard a friar say
That the Olive learned to pray
In Gethsemane,-
A holy man was he,
Jacopo by name,-
All upon his bended knees
From Jerusalem
He crossed Kedron brook
And to the garden came
Of Gethsemane,
And the very olive-trees
Are there t..."></div>
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