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[COME, COME ! WHAT DO I HERE?]
by Henry Vaughan
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.
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Source:
Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 45.
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