The Storm
If as the windes and waters here below Do flie and flow,
My sighs and tears as busy were above; Sure they would move And much affect thee, as tempestuous times Amaze poore mortals, and object their crimes.
Starres have their storms, ev'n in a high degree, As well as we.
A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse Hath a strange force:
It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,
Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy doore.
There it stands knocking, to thy musick's wrong, And drowns the song.
Glorie and honour are set by till it An answer get.
Poets have wrong'd poore storms: such dayes are best;
They purge the aire without, within the breast.
George Herbert
Другие работы автора
The Flower
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns ev'n as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring
Easter Wings
Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With Thee O let me rise, As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day Thy victories: Then shall the fall furt...
Paradise
I SE thee, Lord, because I G R O Among thy trees, which in a R O
Church-Monuments
While that my soul repairs to her devotion, Here I entombe my flesh, that it May take acquaintance of this heap of dust; To which the blast of death's incessant motion,
