Poem by Thomas Campion

O Come Quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee! 

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

Print

1392 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version