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John Henry Newman (Джон Генри Ньюмен) A Thanksgiving Lord, in this dust Thy sovereign voice First quicken'd love divine; I am all Thine,—Thy care and choice, My very praise is Thine. I praise Thee, while Thy providence In childhood frail I trace, For blessings given, ere dawning sense Could seek or scan Thy grace; Blessings in boyhood's marvelling hour, Bright dreams, and fancyings strange; Blessings, when reason's awful power Gave thought a bolder range; Blessings of friends, which to my door Unask'd, unhoped, have come; And, choicer still, a countless store Of eager smiles at home. Yet, Lord, in memory's fondest place I shrine those seasons sad, When, looking up, I saw Thy face In kind austereness clad. I would not miss one sigh or tear, Heart-pang, or throbbing brow; Sweet was the chastisement severe, And sweet its memory now. Yes! let the fragrant scars abide, Love-tokens in Thy stead, Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side And thorn-encompass'd head. And such Thy tender force be still, When self would swerve or stray, Shaping to truth the froward will Along Thy narrow way. Deny me wealth; far, far remove The lure of power or name; Hope thrives in straits, in weakness love, And faith in this world's shame. John Henry Newman's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1308 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |