Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

WEIGHING the steadfastness and state

Of some mean things which here below reside,

Where birds, like watchful clocks, the noiseless date

And intercourse of times divide,

Where bees at night get home and hive, and flow’rs,

Early as well as late,

Rise with the sun and set in the same bow’rs;

I would—said I—my God would give

The staidness of these things to man! for these

To His divine appointments ever cleave,

And no new business breaks their peace;

The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine;

The flow’rs without clothes live,

Yet Solomon was never dress’d so fine.

Man hath still either toys, or care;

He hath no root, nor to one place is tied,

But ever restless and irregular

About this Earth doth run and ride.

He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where;

He says it is so far,

That he hath quite forgot how to go there.

He knocks at all doors, strays and roams,

Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have,

Which in the darkest nights point to their homes,

By some hid sense their Maker gave;

Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest

And passage through these looms

God order’d motion, but ordain’d no rest.