Poem by Richard Crashaw

To the Infant Martyrs

Go, smiling souls, your new-built cages break,
In heaven you’ll learn to sing, ere here to speak,
Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst
                                           Be your delay;
The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
                                           Milk all the way.

1. On the Prodigal
2. On Mr. G. Herbert's Book
3. Christ Crucified
4. In the Holy Nativity of our Lord
5. Wishes to his (Supposed) Mistress

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