Henry Vaughan

* * *

1.

COME, come! what do I here?
Since he is gone
Each day is grown a dozen year
And each hour, one;
Come, come!
Cut off the sum:
By these soil'd tears!
Which only Thou
Know'st to be true,
Days are my fears.

2.

There's not a wind can stir,
Or beam pass by,
But straight I think, though far,
Thy hand is nigh.
Come, come!
Strike these lips dumb:
This restless breath,
That soils Thy name,
Will ne'er be tame
Until in death.

3.

Perhaps some think a tomb
No house of store,
But a dark and seal'd up womb,
Which ne'er breeds more.
Come, come!
Such thoughts benumb:
But I would be
With him I weep
Abed, and sleep,
To wake in Thee.