Richard Crashaw

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers.

Life that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!

Days that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Where’er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye, In shady leaves of destiny.

Whoe’er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me.

Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life; Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of Thy reign, Distils from thence the tears of wrath and strife, And so turns wine to water back again.

The modest front of this small floor, Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can,— “Here lies a truly honest man!”

A happy soul, that all the way To heaven hath a summer’s day.

Eyes are Vocal, Tears have Tongues, And there be words not made with Lungs

Nothing speaks our Grief so well As to speak nothing

The conscious water saw its God and blushed.

Let hearts and lippes speak lowd; and say Hail, door of life: and sourse of day! The door was shutt, the fountain seal'd; Yet Light was seen and Life reveald. The door was shutt, yet let in day, The fountain seald, yet life found way.

If I were lost in misery What was it to Thy heaven and thee? What was it to Thy precious blood If my foul heart called for a flood? What if my faithless soul and I Would needs fall in

What soul soe'er, in any language, can Speak heav'n like hers is my soul's countryman. Oh, 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heav'n she speaks! 'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks

’Tis love, not years or limbs that can Make the martyr, or the man.

Love's great artillery.