The Timber
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers. And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root. But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive—thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be. Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
Henry Vaughan
Other author posts
The Call
1 ME, my heart come, my head, In sighs, and tears 'Tis now, since you have lain thus dead, Some twenty years ; Awake, awake, Some pity take Upon yourselves
The Dwelling-Place
John What happy secret fountain, Fair shade or mountain, Whose undiscovered virgin
The Book
Eternal God Maker of That have lived here since the man's fall: The Rock of Ages
I Walkd The Other Day
I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flow'r; But winter now had ruffled all the bow'r And curious store I knew there heretofore Yet I, whose search lov'd not to peep an...
