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Poem by Henry Vaughan


The Timber


Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line
Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yetas if some deep hate and dissent,
Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,
Were still alivethou dost great storms resent
Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
But this thy strange resentment after death
Means only those who brokein lifethy peace. 



Henry Vaughan


Henry Vaughan's other poems:
  1. The Relapse
  2. The True Christians
  3. The Evening-Watch
  4. The Shepherds
  5. Son-Days


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