ON MR. G. HERBERT'S BOOK,|
Entitled, The Temple of Sacred Poems, sent to a
KNOW you, fair, on what you look ?
Divinest love lies in this book,
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this His sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings ;
One that gladly will be nigh
To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your well-perfumèd prayer.
These white plumes of His He'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you ;
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-faced kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.
The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw. William B. Turnbull, Ed.
London: John Russell Smith, 1858. 66.
||to Works of Richard Crashaw|
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