John Keble

(25 April 1792 – 29 March 1866 / Fairford, Gloucestershire)

John Keble Poems

1. The Restoration Of The Royal Family 1/1/2004
2. Sixth Sunday After Epiphany 1/1/2004
3. The Conversion Of St. Paul 1/1/2004
4. Second Sunday After Christmas 1/1/2004
5. St. Bartholomew 1/1/2004
6. St. John Baptist's Day 1/1/2004
7. Second Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
8. Twenty-Third Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
9. Tuesday In Whitsun-Week 1/1/2004
10. First Sunday In Lent 1/1/2004
11. Twenty-First Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
12. Twelfth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
13. Holy Baptism 1/1/2004
14. Fourth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
15. Matrimony 1/1/2004
16. Fourth Sunday After Epiphany 1/1/2004
17. Second Sunday In Advent 1/1/2004
18. St. Matthew 1/1/2004
19. St. Stephens Day 1/1/2004
20. Monday In Easter Week 1/1/2004
21. Monday In Whitsun-Week 1/1/2004
22. St. Philip And St. James 1/1/2004
23. Twenty-Fifth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
24. Third Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
25. Fourteenth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
26. Fourth Sunday After Easter 1/1/2004
27. Monday Before Easter 1/1/2004
28. Ninth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
29. St. Thomas' Day 1/1/2004
30. Holy Communion 1/1/2004
31. Sunday After Ascension 1/1/2004
32. The Accession 1/1/2004
33. The Epiphany 1/1/2004
34. Third Sunday In Advent 1/1/2004
35. Fourth Sunday In Advent 1/1/2004
36. Tuesday In Easter Week 1/1/2004
37. St. Simon And St. Jude 1/1/2004
38. First Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
39. Sunday Next Before Advent 1/1/2004
40. Thirteenth Sunday After Trinity 1/1/2004
Best Poem of John Keble

Morning

Hues of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible
Around his path are taught to swell; -

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing; -

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven; -

Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight;
Who day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of ...

Read the full of Morning

Churching Of Women

Is there, in bowers of endless spring,
One known from all the seraph band
By softer voice, by smile and wing
More exquisitely bland!
Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air
Is fragrant with a mother's first and fondest prayer.

Only let Heaven her fire impart,
No richer incense breathes on earth:

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