I saw Eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright.
Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came, return.
For each inclosed spirit is a star Enlightening his own little sphere
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!
As great a store Have we of books as bees of herbs or more.
Early, as well as late, Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers
They are all gone into the world of light, and I alone sit lingering here.
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 One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.
Some syllables are swords.
The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and, all the way Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.
Death, and darkness get you packing, Nothing now to man is lacking, All your triumphs now are ended, And what Adam marred, is mended.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep. So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted dreams, And into glory peep.
Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud Shroud in their births.
Prayer is The world in tune, A spirit-voyce, And vocall joyes, Whose Eccho is heaven's blisse.
Affliction is a mother, Whose painful throes yield many sons, Each fairer than the other.
As men are killed by fighting, the truth is lost in disputing.
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 cloth chime.
Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just.
The skin and shell of things Though fair are not Thy wish nor prayer but got My meer despair of wings.
Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God ordered motion, but ordained no rest.
A ward, and still in bonds, one day I stole abroad; It was high spring, and all the way Primrosed and hung with shade; Yet was it frost within, And surly winds Blasted my infant buds, and sin Like clouds eclipsed my mind.
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?
Holy writing must strive (by all means) for perfection and true holiness, that a door may be opened to him in heaven.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distinct, and low, I can in thine see Him Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, And minds the covenant between all and One.
I played with fire, did counsel spurn, Made life my common stake; But never thought that fire would burn, O that a soul could ache.
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