by Henry Vaughan

O JOYS! Infinite sweetness ! with what flowers
And shoots of glory, my soul breaks and buds !
                  All the long hours
                  Of night and rest,
                  Through the still shrouds
                  Of sleep, and clouds,
              This dew fell on my breast ;
                  O how it bloods,
And spirits all my earth ! hark !  in what rings,
And hymning circulations the quick world
                  Awakes, and sings !
                  The rising winds,
                  And falling springs,
                  Birds, beasts, all things
              Adore Him in their kinds.
                  Thus all is hurl'd
In sacred hymns and order ; the great chime
And symphony of Nature.   Prayer is
                  The world in tune,
                  A spirit-voice,
                  And vocal joys,
              Whose echo is heaven's bliss.
                  O let me climb
When I lie down !    The pious soul by night
Is like a clouded star, whose beams, though said
                  To shed their light
                  Under some cloud,
                  Yet are above,
                  And shine and move
              Beyond that misty shroud.
                  So in my bed,
That curtain'd grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide
My lamp and life, both shall in Thee abide.

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 71-72.

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