Henry Vaughan

* * *


COME, come! what do I here?
Since he is gone
Each day is grown a dozen year
And each hour, one;
Come, come!
Cut off the sum:
By these soil'd tears!
Which only Thou
Know'st to be true,
Days are my fears.


There's not a wind can stir,
Or beam pass by,
But straight I think, though far,
Thy hand is nigh.
Come, come!
Strike these lips dumb:
This restless breath,
That soils Thy name,
Will ne'er be tame
Until in death.


Perhaps some think a tomb
No house of store,
But a dark and seal'd up womb,
Which ne'er breeds more.
Come, come!
Such thoughts benumb:
But I would be
With him I weep
Abed, and sleep,
To wake in Thee. 

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