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Gladly engrave thy love in steel, If what my soul doth feel sometimes, My soul might ever feel ! Although there were some fourtie heav’ns, or more, Sometimes I peere above them all ; Sometimes I hardly reach a score, Sometimes to hell I fall. O rack me not to such a vast extent ; Those distances belong to thee : The world’s too little for thy tent, A grave too big for me. Wilt thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch A crumme of dust from heav’n to hell ? Will great God measure with a wretch ? Shall he thy stature spell ? O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid, O let me roost and nestle there : Then of a sinner thou art rid, And I of hope and fear. Yet take thy way ; for sure thy way is best : Stretch or contract me thy poore debter : This is but tuning of my breast, To make the musick better. Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust, Thy hands made both, and I am there. Thy power and love, my love and trust, Make one place ev’ry where. |
Source:
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 66-67.
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Created by Anniina Jokinen on July 31, 2001.
