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Thomas Traherne (Томас Трэхерн) Desire For giving me desire, An eager thirst, a burning ardent fire, A virgin infant flame, A love with which into the world I came, An inward hidden heavenly love, Which in my soul did work and move, And ever, ever me inflame With restless longing, heavenly avarice, That never could be satisfied, That did incessantly a paradise Unknown suggest, and something undescribed Discern, and bear me to it; be Thy name forever praised by me. My parched and withered bones Burnt up did seem; my soul was full of groans; My thoughts extensions were: Like paces, reaches, steps they did appear; They somewhat hotly did pursue, Knew that they had not all their due, Nor ever quiet were. But made my flesh like hungry, thirsty ground, My heart a deep profound abyss, And every joy and pleasure a wound, So long as I my blessedness did miss. Oh happiness! A famine burns, And all my life to anguish turns! Where are the silent streams, The living waters and the glorious beams, The sweet reviving bowers, The shady groves, the sweet and curious flowers, The springs and trees, the heavenly days, The flow'ry meads, and glorious rays, The gold and silver towers? Alas! all these are poor and empty things! Trees, waters, days, and shining beams, Fruits, flowers, bowers, shady groves, and springs, No joy will yield, no more than silent streams; Those are but dead material toys, And cannot make my heavenly joys. O love! Ye amities, And friendships that appear above the skies! Ye feasts and living pleasures! Ye senses, honors, and imperial treasures! That satisfy all appetites! Ye sweet affections, and Ye high respects! Whatever joys there be In triumphs, whatsoever stand In amicable sweet society, Whatever pleasures are at His right hand, Ye must before I am divine In full propriety be mine. This soaring, sacred thirst, Ambassador of bliss, approached first, Making a place in me That made me apt to prize, and taste, and see. For not the objects but the sense Of things doth bliss to our souls dispense, And make it, Lord, like Thee. Sense, feeling, taste, complacency, and sight, These are the true and real joys, The living, flowing, inward, melting, bright, And heavenly pleasures; all the rest are toys; All which are founded in desire, As light in flame and heat in fire. Thomas Traherne's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1395 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |