Генри Воэн (Henry Vaughan)

The Pursuit

LORD! what a busy, restless thing
Hast Thou made man!
Each day and hour he is on wing,
Rests not a span;
Then having lost the sun and light,
By clouds surpris'd,
He keeps a commerce in the night
With air disguis'd.
Hadst Thou given to this active dust
A state untir'd,
The lost son had not left the husk,
Nor home desir'd.
That was Thy secret, and it is
Thy mercy too;
For when all fails to bring to bliss,
Then this must do.
Ah, Lord! and what a purchase will that be,
To take us sick, that sound would not take Thee! 

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