The Christian Year by John Keble
page 60 of 300 (20%)
page 60 of 300 (20%)
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Prized above all the vernal bower,
Sheltered beneath the coolest shade, Embosomed in the greenest glade, So frail a gem, it scarce may bear The playful touch of evening air; When hardier grown we love it less, And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress. And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide Worth all the changeful year beside? The last-born babe, why lies its part Deep in the mother's inmost heart? But that the Lord and Source of love Would have His weakest ever prove Our tenderest care--and most of all Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan's thrall. So be it, Lord; I know it best, Though not as yet this wayward breast Beat quite in answer to Thy voice, Yet surely I have made my choice; I know not yet the promised bliss, Know not if I shall win or miss; So doubting, rather let me die, Than close with aught beside, to last eternally. What is the Heaven we idly dream? The self-deceiver's dreary theme, A cloudless sun that softly shines, Bright maidens and unfailing vines, |
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