Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695.
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
The Retreat.
I see them walking in an air of glory
Whose light doth trample on my days,—
[264]My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
They are all gone.
Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
They are all gone.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
They are all gone.
Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch
At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;
Keep clean, be as fruit, earn life, and watch
Till the white-wing'd reapers come!
The Seed growing secretly.