Henry Vaughan

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, be as fruit, earn life, and watch Till the white-wing’d reapers come!

Tempests and windes and winter-nights Vex not, that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights. If those bright joys He singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads ;

I will on thee as on a comet look, A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; Thy light as luctual and stain'd with woes I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixt and close. But though some think thou shin'st but to restrain Bold storms, and …

When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant, and low, I can in thine see Him Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And mindes the covenant 'twixt all and One.

Still young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new.

My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars Where stands a wingèd sentry All skillful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace is crowned with smiles,

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just! Shining nowhere but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

I see them walking in an air of glory Whose light doth trample on my days, My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

They are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit lingering here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

I saw Eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light. All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv'n by the spheres Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries! which he Must live that would God's face see Which angels …

Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself? Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul,

I cannot reach it, and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my pow'r, Quickly would I make …

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move.

My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense

Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race.

There is in God — some say — A deep, but dazzling darkness; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that Night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim!

Dear Night! this world's defeat; The stop to busy fools; care's check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ's progress, and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.

Holy writing must strive (by all means) for perfection and true holiness, that a door may be opened to him in heaven.

As men are killed by fighting, the truth is lost in disputing.