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And therefore her decrees of steel

Us as the distant poles have placed (Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel), Not by themselves to be embraced,

Unless the giddy heaven fall,

And earth some new convulsion tear,
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramped into a planisphere.

As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;

But ours, so truly parallel,

Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But fate so enviously debars,

Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.

THE GARDEN

Translated out of his own Latin
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of Repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:

Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow :
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas, they know or heed

How far these beauties her exceed!

Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall, but your own, be found.

When we have run our passions' heat
Love hither makes his best retreat;
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside

My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state

While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet,

What other help could yet be meet.

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share

To wander solitary there:

Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee

Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers?

HENRY VAUGHAN

1621-1695

THE DAWNING

AH! what time wilt Thou come? When shall

that cry,

'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the sky? Shall it in the evening run,

When our words and works are done?

Or will Thy all-surprising light

Break at midnight,

When either sleep or some dark pleasure
Possesseth mad man without measure?
Or shall these early, fragrant hours
Unlock Thy bowers?

And with their blush of light descry
Thy locks crowned with eternity?
Indeed it is the only time

That with Thy glory best doth chime;
All now are stirring, every field

Full hymns doth yield;

The whole creation shakes off night,
And for Thy shadow looks the light;
Stars now vanish without number,
Sleepy planets set and slumber,

The pursy clouds disband and scatter,
All expect some sudden matter;
Not one beam triumphs, but from far
That morning star.

O at what time soever Thou,

Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow,
And, with Thy angels in the van,

Descend to judge poor careless man,
Grant I may not like puddle lie
In a corrupt security,

Where, if a traveller water crave,
He finds it dead, and in a grave;
But as this restless vocal spring

All day and night doth run and sing,
And, though here born, yet is acquainted
Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted;
So let me all my busy age

In Thy free services engage;

And though-while here-of force I must
Have commerce sometimes with poor dust,
And in my flesh, though vile and low,
As this doth in her channel flow,
Yet let my course, my aim, my love,
And chief acquaintance be above;
So when that day and hour shall come,
In which Thy Self will be the sun,
Thou 'lt find me dressed and on my way,
Watching the break of Thy great day.

CHILDHOOD

I CANNOT reach it; and my striving eye
Dazzles at it, as at eternity.

Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven.

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