Томас Кэмпион (Thomas Campion)

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TO music bent is my retired mind	
And fain would I some song of pleasure sing,	
But in vain joys no comfort now I find;	
From heavenly thoughts all true delight doth spring:	
Thy power, O God, Thy mercies to record,	        5
Will sweeten every note and every word.	
 
All earthly pomp or beauty to express	
Is but to carve in snow, in waves to write;	
Celestial things, though men conceive them less,	
Yet fullest are they in themselves of light:	        10
Such beams they yield as know no means to die,	
Such heat they cast as lifts the spirit high.

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