by Henry Vaughan

PEACE, peace !  I know 'twas brave ;
             But this coarse fleece,
I shelter in, is slave
            To no such piece.
            When I am gone,
I shall no wardrobes leave
            To friend, or son,
But what their own homes weave.


Such, though not proud nor full,
            May make them weep,
And mourn to see the wool
            Outlast the sheep :
            Poor, pious wear !
Hadst thou been rich, or fine,
            Perhaps that tear
Had mourn'd thy loss, not mine.


Why then these curl'd, puff'd points,
            Or a laced story ?
Death sets all out of joint,
            And scorns their glory.
            Some love a rose
In hand, some in the skin ;
            But, cross to those,
I would have mine within.

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 65-66.

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