by Henry Vaughan

FALSE life ! a foil and no more, when
              Wilt thou be gone ?
Thou foul deception of all men,
That would not have the true come on !

Thou art a moon-like toil ; a blind
              Self-posing state ;
A dark contest of waves and wind ;
A mere tempestuous debate.

Life is a fix'd, discerning light,
              A knowing joy ;
No chance, or fit : but ever bright,
And calm, and full, yet doth not cloy.

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still
              Doth vivify,
And shine and smile, and hath the skill
To please without eternity.

Thou art a toilsome mole, or less,
              A moving mist.
But life is, what none can express,
A quickness, which my God hath kiss'd.

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 282.

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