Poem by 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.

1. Fire That Must Flame Is with Apt Fuel Fed
2. Shall I Come, Sweet Love to Thee
3. Follow Your Saint
4. The Charm
5. My Sweetest Lesbia

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