Richard Crashaw

Tell me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
Whither away so frolic
why so glad
What all thy wealth in council

Each blest drop on each blest limb,    Is wash't itself, in washing Him :'Tis a gem while it stays here ;    While it falls hence 'tis a tear

I would be married, but I'd have no wife ;
I would be married to a single life

See here an easy feast that knows no wound,        That under hunger's teeth will needs be sound;    A subtle harvest of unbounded bread,        What would ye more
Here food itself is fed

Whatever story of their cruelty,
Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee, Are in another sense Still legible ; Sweet is the difference : Once I did spell Every red letter A wound of Thine ; Now, what is better, Balsam for mine
...

Now westward Sol had spent the richest
Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak, there satA sweet lute's master :  in whose gentle

Here, where our Lord once laid his Head,
Now the grave lies buried

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks
Age
wouldst see December smile
Wouldst see nests of new roses

Know you, fair, on what you look
Divinest love lies in this book,
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this His sacrifice

Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace    Sends up my soul to seek thy face
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,  I dy in love’s delicious Fire
O love,
I am thy Sacrifice

ME, we shepherds whose blest sight Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night ; Come lift up our loftier song,
And wake the sun that lies too long
To all our world of well-stol'n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing,
While we found...

Let it no longer be a forlorn hope To wash an Ethiop :
He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade For his white soul is made :
And now,
I doubt not, the Eternal Dove A black-faced house will love...