Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

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.

There’s not a wind can stir,

Or beam pass by,

By 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.

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.