| With what deep murmurs through time’s
silent stealth |
| Doth thy transparent, cool, and watery
wealth |
|
Here flowing fall, |
|
And chide and call, |
| As if his liquid loose retinue stayed
|
| Lingering, and were of this steep place
afraid, |
|
The common pass |
|
Where, clear as glass, |
|
All must descend |
|
Not to an end ; |
| But quickened by this deep and rocky
grave, |
Rise to a longer course more bright and
brave.
|
| Dear stream !
dear bank, where often I |
| Have sat, and
pleased my pensive eye, |
| Why, since
each drop of thy quick store |
| Runs thither,
whence it flowed before, |
| Should poor
souls fear a shade or night, |
| Who came,
sure, from a sea of light ? |
| Or since those
drops are all sent back |
| So sure to
thee, that none doth lack, |
| Why should
frail flesh doubt any more |
| That what God
takes, he’ll not restore ? |
| O useful
Element and clear ! |
| My sacred wash
and cleanser here, |
| My first
consigner unto those |
| Fountains of
life, where the Lamb goes, |
| What sublime
truths, and wholesome themes |
| Lodge in thy
mystical, deep streams ! |
| Such as dull
man can never find, |
| Unless that
Spirit lead his mind, |
| Which first
upon thy face did move, |
| And hatched
all with his quickening love. |
| As this loud
brook’s incessant fall |
| In streaming
rings restagnates all, |
| Which reach by
course the bank, and then |
| Are no more
seen, just so pass men. |
| O my invisible
estate, |
| My glorious
liberty, still late ! |
| Thou art the
channel my soul seeks, |
Not this with
cataracts and creeks.
|
| Henry
Vaughan |
Classic Poems |
| |
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