George Herbert


OH Book !  infinite sweetnesse !  let my heart
     Suck evíry letter, and a hony gain,
     Precious for any grief in any part ;
To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
     A full eternitie :  thou art a masse
     Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.
Ladies, look here ;  this is the thankfull glasse,

That mends the lookers eyes :  this is the well
     That washes what it shows.   Who can indeare
     Thy praise too much ?  thou art heavíns Lidger here,
Working against the states of death and hell.

     Thou art joyes handsell :  heavín lies flat in thee,
     Subject to evíry mounters bended knee.

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
     And the configurations of their glorie !
     Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
     Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie :
     Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christians destinie.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
     And comments on thee :  for in evíry thing
     Thy words do finde me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

     Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse
     This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.

Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 71-72.

to Works of George Herbert

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