The Morning-Watch
. O joys! infinite sweetness! with what flow'rs And shoots of glory my soul breaks and buds! All the long hours Of night, and rest, Through the still shrouds Of sleep, and clouds, This dew fell on my breast; Oh, how it bloods And spirits all my earth!
Hark!
In what rings And hymning circulations the quick world Awakes and sings; The rising winds And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds. Thus all is hurl'd In sacred hymns and order, the great chime And symphony of nature.
Prayer is The world in tune, A spirit voice, And vocal joys Whose echo is heav'n's bliss. O let me climb When I lie down!
The pious soul by night Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said To shed their light Under some cloud, Yet are above, And shine and move Beyond that misty shroud. So in my bed, That curtain'd grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide My lamp and life, both shall in thee abide.
Henry Vaughan
Other author posts
Death A Dialogue
IS a sad Land, that in one day Hath dull'd thee thus ; when death shall freeze Thy blood to ice, and thou must stay Tenant for years, and centuries ; How wilt thou brook't Body I cannot tell ;
The True Christmas
So stick up ivy and the bays, And then restore the heathen ways Green will remind you of the spring, Though this great day denies the thing
The Bird
Hither thou com'st: the busy wind all Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm Thy pillow was Many a sullen storm(For which coarse man seems much the fitter born)Rained on thy
Mount Of Olives I
1 ET, sacred hill on whose fair brow My Saviour sate, shall I allow Language to love, And idolize some shade, or grove,
