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THE PURSUIT.
by Henry Vaughan
LORD
! what a busy, restless thing
Hast Thou made man !
Each day and hour he is
on wing,
Rests not a span ;
Then having lost the sun
and light,
By clouds surpris'd,
He keeps a commerce in the
night
With air disguis'd.
Hadst Thou given to this
active dust
A state untir'd,
The lost son had not left
the husk,
Nor home desir'd.
That was Thy secret, and
it is
Thy mercy too ;
For when all fails to bring
to bliss,
Then this must do.
Ah, Lord ! and what a purchase will that be,
To take us sick, that sound would not take 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. 48.
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