by Henry Vaughan

COME, come ! what do I here ?
           Since he is gone
Each day is grown a dozen year
           And each hour, one ;
               Come, come !
               Cut off the sum :
           By these soil'd tears !
               Which only Thou
                Know'st to be true,
           Days are my fears.


There's not a wind can stir,
           Or beam pass by,
But straight I think, though far,
           Thy hand is nigh.
                Come, come !
                Strike these lips dumb :
           This restless breath,
                That soils Thy name,
                Will ne'er be tame
           Until in death.


Perhaps some think a tomb
           No house of store,
But a dark and seal'd up womb,
           Which ne'er breeds more.
                 Come, come !
                 Such thoughts benumb :
           But I would be
                 With him I weep
                 Abed, and sleep,
           To wake in Thee.

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 45.

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