John Keble

Here you will find the Poem Second Sunday After Christmas of poet John Keble

Second Sunday After Christmas

And wilt thou hear the fevered heart
 To Thee in silence cry?
And as th' inconstant wildfires dart
 Out of the restless eye,
Wilt thou forgive the wayward though
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Saviours right, so dearly bought,
 That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer
 Has reached Thee from the wild,
Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
 Cast down her fainting child,
Then stole apart to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel form was nigh,
To show soft waters gushing by,
 And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt--for Thou art Israel's God,
 And Thine unwearied arm
Is ready yet with Moses' rod,
 The hidden rill to charm
Out of the dry unfathomed deep
Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,
Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
 Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine -
 Thine, too, the drearier hour
When o'er th' horizon's silent line
 Fond hopeless fancies cower,
And on the traveller's listless way
Rises and sets th' unchanging day,
No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,
 On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,
 To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
 This throbbing brow to cool:
Till loft awhile with Thee alone
The wilful heart be fain to own
That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
 Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away
 Upon the breeze is flung;
The desert pelican to-day
 Securely leaves her young,
Reproving thankless man, who fears
To journey on a few lone years,
Where on the sand Thy step appears,
 Thy crown in sight is hung.

Thou, who did sit on Jacob's well
 The weary hour of noon,
The languid pulses Thou canst tell,
 The nerveless spirit tune.
Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst
The cry that owned Thy dying thirst,
To Thee we turn, our Last and First,
 Our Sun and soothing Moon.

From darkness, here, and dreariness
 We ask not full repose,
Only be Thou at hand, to bless
 Our trial hour of woes.
Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid
By the clear rill and palmy shade?
And see we not, up Earth's dark glade,
 The gate of Heaven unclose?