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Prepare the feast of perfect faith, the delight of the Holy King. Prepare the feast of the King. This is the feast of the Lesser Presence; the Ancient Eminence and Field of Apples assemble with Him for the feast.

You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always purple, Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would choose The one obscured by sleep? Here is the plantain by your door And the best cock of red feather That crew before the clocks. A feme may come, leaf-green, Whose coming may give revel Beyond revelries of sleep, Yes, and the blackbird spread its tail, So that the sun may speckle, While it creaks hail. You dweller in the dark cabin, Rise, since rising will not waken, And hail, cry hail, cry hail.

AH whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me? What wontless fury dost thou now inspire Into my feeble breast, too full of thee? Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire, Thou in me kindlest much more great desire, And up aloft above my strength dost raise The wondrous matter of my fire to praise. That as I erst in praise of thine own name, So now in honour of thy mother dear, An honourable hymn I eke should frame, And with the brightness of her beauty clear, The ravish'd hearts of gazeful men might rear To admiration of that heavenly light, From whence proceeds such soul-enchanting might. Thereto do thou, great goddess, queen of beauty, Mother of love, and of all world's delight, Without whose sovereign grace and kindly duty Nothing on earth seems fair to fleshly sight, Do thou vouchsafe with thy love-kindling light T' illuminate my dim and dulled eyne, And beautify this sacred hymn of thine: That both to thee, to whom I mean it most, And eke to her, whose fair immortal beam Hath darted fire into my feeble ghost, That now it wasted is with woes extreme, It may so please, that she at length will stream Some dew of grace into my withered heart, After long sorrow and consuming smart. WHAT time this world's great Workmaster did cast To make all things such as we now behold, It seems that he before his eyes had plac'd A goodly pattern, to whose perfect mould He fashion'd them as comely as he could; That now so fair and seemly they appear, As nought may be amended anywhere. That wondrous pattern, wheresoe'er it be, Whether in earth laid up in secret store, Or else in heaven, that no man may it see With sinful eyes, for fear it to deflore, Is perfect Beauty, which all men adore; Whose face and feature doth so much excel All mortal sense, that none the same may tell. Thereof as every earthly thing partakes Or more or less, by influence divine, So it more fair accordingly it makes, And the gross matter of this earthly mine, Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refine, Doing away the dross which dims the light Of that fair beam which therein is empight. For, through infusion of celestial power, The duller earth it quick'neth with delight, And lifeful spirits privily doth pour Through all the parts, that to the looker's sight They seem to please. That is thy sovereign might, O Cyprian queen, which flowing from the beam Of thy bright star, thou into them dost stream. That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire, Light of thy lamp, which, shining in the face, Thence to the soul darts amorous desire, And robs the hearts of those which it admire; Therewith thou pointest thy son's poison'd arrow, That wounds the life, and wastes the inmost marrow. How vainly then do idle wits invent, That beauty is nought else but mixture made Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade And pass away, like to a summer's shade; Or that it is but comely composition Of parts well measur'd, with meet disposition. Hath white and red in it such wondrous power, That it can pierce through th' eyes unto the heart, And therein stir such rage and restless stour, As nought but death can stint his dolour's smart? Or can proportion of the outward part Move such affection in the inward mind, That it can rob both sense and reason blind? Why do not then the blossoms of the field, Which are array'd with much more orient hue, And to the sense most dainty odours yield, Work like impression in the looker's view? Or why do not fair pictures like power shew, In which oft-times we nature see of art Excell'd, in perfect limning every part? But ah, believe me, there is more than so, That works such wonders in the minds of men; I, that have often prov'd, too well it know, And whoso list the like assays to ken, Shall find by trial, and confess it then, That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, An outward shew of things, that only seem. For that same goodly hue of white and red, With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay, And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away To that they were, even to corrupted clay; That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright, Shall turn to dust; and lose their goodly light. But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray That light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire, Shall never be extinguish'd nor decay; But when the vital spirits do expire, Unto her native planet shall retire; For it is heavenly born and cannot die, Being a parcel of the purest sky. For when the soul, the which derived was, At first, out of that great immortal Spright, By whom all live to love, whilom did pass Down from the top of purest heaven's height To be embodied here, it then took light And lively spirits from that fairest star, Which lights the world forth from his fiery car. Which power retaining still or more or less, When she in fleshly seed is eft enraced, Through every part she doth the same impress, According as the heavens have her graced, And frames her house, in which she will be placed, Fit for herself, adorning it with spoil Of th' heavenly riches which she robb'd erewhile. Thereof it comes that these fair souls, which have The most resemblance of that heavenly light, Frame to themselves most beautiful and brave Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight, And the gross matter by a sovereign might Tempers so trim, that it may well be seen A palace fit for such a virgin queen. So every spirit, as it is most pure, And hath in it the more of heavenly light, So it the fairer body doth procure To habit in, and it more fairly dight With cheerful grace and amiable sight. For of the soul the body form doth take: For soul is form, and doth the body make. Therefore wherever that thou dost behold A comely corpse, with beauty fair endued, Know this for certain, that the same doth hold A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed, Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed. For all that fair is, is by nature good; That is a sign to know the gentle blood. Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind Dwells in deformed tabernacle drown'd, Either by chance, against the course of kind, Or through unaptness in the substance found, Which it assumed of some stubborn ground, That will not yield unto her form's direction, But is deform'd with some foul imperfection. And oft it falls, (ay me, the more to rue) That goodly beauty, albe heavenly born, Is foul abus'd, and that celestial hue, Which doth the world with her delight adorn, Made but the bait of sin, and sinners' scorn, Whilst every one doth seek and sue to have it, But every one doth seek but to deprave it. Yet nathëmore is that fair beauty's blame, But theirs that do abuse it unto ill: Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame May be corrupt, and wrested unto will: Natheless the soul is fair and beauteous still, However flesh{"e}s fault it filthy make; For things immortal no corruption take. But ye fair dames, the world's dear ornaments And lively images of heaven's light, Let not your beams with such disparagements Be dimm'd, and your bright glory dark'ned quite; But mindful still of your first country's sight, Do still preserve your first informed grace, Whose shadow yet shines in your beauteous face. Loathe that foul blot, that hellish firebrand, Disloyal lust, fair beauty's foulest blame, That base affections, which your ears would bland, Commend to you by love's abused name, But is indeed the bondslave of defame; Which will the garland of your glory mar, And quench the light of your bright shining star. But gentle Love, that loyal is and true, Will more illumine your resplendent ray, And add more brightness to your goodly hue, From light of his pure fire; which, by like way Kindled of yours, your likeness doth display; Like as two mirrors, by oppos'd reflection, Do both express the face's first impression. Therefore, to make your beauty more appear, It you behoves to love, and forth to lay That heavenly riches which in you ye bear, That men the more admire their fountain may; For else what booteth that celestial ray, If it in darkness be enshrined ever, That it of loving eyes be viewed never? But, in your choice of loves, this well advise, That likest to yourselves ye them select, The which your forms' first source may sympathize, And with like beauty's parts be inly deckt; For, if you loosely love without respect, It is no love, but a discordant war, Whose unlike parts amongst themselves do jar. For love is a celestial harmony Of likely hearts compos'd of stars' concent, Which join together in sweet sympathy, To work each other's joy and true content, Which they have harbour'd since their first descent Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see And know each other here belov'd to be. Then wrong it were that any other twain Should in love's gentle band combined be But those whom Heaven did at first ordain, And made out of one mould the more t' agree; For all that like the beauty which they see, Straight do not love; for love is not so light As straight to burn at first beholder's sight. But they, which love indeed, look otherwise, With pure regard and spotless true intent, Drawing out of the object of their eyes A more refined form, which they present Unto their mind, void of all blemishment; Which it reducing to her first perfection, Beholdeth free from flesh's frail infection. And then conforming it unto the light, Which in itself it hath remaining still, Of that first Sun, yet sparkling in his sight, Thereof he fashions in his higher skill An heavenly beauty to his fancy's will; And it embracing in his mind entire, The mirror of his own thought doth admire. Which seeing now so inly fair to be, As outward it appeareth to the eye, And with his spirit's proportion to agree, He thereon fixeth all his fantasy, And fully setteth his felicity; Counting it fairer than it is indeed, And yet indeed her fairness doth exceed. For lovers' eyes more sharply sighted be Than other men's, and in dear love's delight See more than any other eyes can see, Through mutual receipt of beam{"e}s bright, Which carry privy message to the spright, And to their eyes that inmost fair display, As plain as light discovers dawning day. Therein they see, through amorous eye-glances, Armies of loves still flying to and fro, Which dart at them their little fiery lances; Whom having wounded, back again they go, Carrying compassion to their lovely foe; Who, seeing her fair eyes' so sharp effect, Cures all their sorrows with one sweet aspect. In which how many wonders do they rede To their conceit, that others never see, Now of her smiles, with which their souls they feed, Like gods with nectar in their banquets free; Now of her looks, which like to cordials be; But when her words' embássade forth she sends, Lord, how sweet music that unto them lends. Sometimes upon her forehead they behold A thousand graces masking in delight; Sometimes within her eyelids they unfold Ten thousand sweet belgards, which to their sight Do seem like twinkling stars in frosty night; But on her lips, like rosy buds in May, So many millions of chaste pleasures play. All those, O Cytherea, and thousands more Thy handmaids be, which do on thee attend, To deck thy beauty with their dainties' store, That may it more to mortal eyes commend, And make it more admir'd of foe and friend: That in men's hearts thou may'st thy throne install, And spread thy lovely kingdom over all. Then Iö, triumph! O great Beauty's Queen, Advance the banner of thy conquest high, That all this world, the which thy vassals bene, May draw to thee, and with due fealty Adore the power of thy great majesty, Singing this hymn in honour of thy name, Compil'd by me, which thy poor liegeman am. In lieu whereof grant, O great sovereign, That she whose conquering beauty doth captive My trembling heart in her eternal chain, One drop of grace at length will to me give, That I her bounden thrall by her may live, And this same life, which first fro me she reaved, May owe to her, of whom I it received. And you, fair Venus' darling, my dear dread, Fresh flower of grace, great goddess of my life, When your fair eyes these fearful lines shall read, Deign to let fall one drop of due relief, That may recure my heart's long pining grief, And shew what wondrous power your beauty hath, That can restore a damned wight from death.

Rapt with the rage of mine own ravish'd thought, Through contemplation of those goodly sights, And glorious images in heaven wrought, Whose wondrous beauty, breathing sweet delights Do kindle love in high-conceited sprights; I fain to tell the things that I behold, But feel my wits to fail, and tongue to fold. Vouchsafe then, O thou most Almighty Spright, From whom all gifts of wit and knowledge flow, To shed into my breast some sparkling light Of thine eternal truth, that I may show Some little beams to mortal eyes below Of that immortal beauty, there with thee, Which in my weak distraughted mind I see; That with the glory of so goodly sight The hearts of men, which fondly here admire Fair seeming shews, and feed on vain delight, Transported with celestial desire Of those fair forms, may lift themselves up higher, And learn to love, with zealous humble duty, Th' eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty. Beginning then below, with th' easy view Of this base world, subject to fleshly eye, From thence to mount aloft, by order due, To contemplation of th' immortal sky; Of the soare falcon so I learn to fly, That flags awhile her fluttering wings beneath, Till she herself for stronger flight can breathe. Then look, who list thy gazeful eyes to feed With sight of that is fair, look on the frame Of this wide universe, and therein reed The endless kinds of creatures which by name Thou canst not count, much less their natures aim; All which are made with wondrous wise respect, And all with admirable beauty deckt. First th' earth, on adamantine pillars founded, Amid the sea engirt with brazen bands; Then th' air still flitting, but yet firmly bounded On every side, with piles of flaming brands, Never consum'd, nor quench'd with mortal hands; And last, that mighty shining crystal wall, Wherewith he hath encompassed this All. By view whereof it plainly may appear, That still as every thing doth upward tend, And further is from earth, so still more clear And fair it grows, till to his perfect end Of purest beauty it at last ascend; Air more than water, fire much more than air, And heaven than fire, appears more pure and fair. Look thou no further, but affix thine eye On that bright, shiny, round, still moving mass, The house of blessed gods, which men call sky, All sow'd with glist'ring stars more thick than grass, Whereof each other doth in brightness pass, But those two most, which ruling night and day, As king and queen, the heavens' empire sway; And tell me then, what hast thou ever seen That to their beauty may compared be, Or can the sight that is most sharp and keen Endure their captain's flaming head to see? How much less those, much higher in degree, And so much fairer, and much more than these, As these are fairer than the land and seas? For far above these heavens, which here we see, Be others far exceeding these in light, Not bounded, not corrupt, as these same be, But infinite in largeness and in height, Unmoving, uncorrupt, and spotless bright, That need no sun t' illuminate their spheres, But their own native light far passing theirs. And as these heavens still by degrees arise, Until they come to their first Mover's bound, That in his mighty compass doth comprise, And carry all the rest with him around; So those likewise do by degrees redound, And rise more fair; till they at last arrive To the most fair, whereto they all do strive. Fair is the heaven where happy souls have place, In full enjoyment of felicity, Whence they do still behold the glorious face Of the divine eternal Majesty; More fair is that, where those Ideas on high Enranged be, which Plato so admired, And pure Intelligences from God inspired. Yet fairer is that heaven, in which do reign The sovereign Powers and mighty Potentates, Which in their high protections do contain All mortal princes and imperial states; And fairer yet, whereas the royal Seats And heavenly Dominations are set, From whom all earthly governance is fet. Yet far more fair be those bright Cherubins, Which all with golden wings are overdight, And those eternal burning Seraphins, Which from their faces dart out fiery light; Yet fairer than they both, and much more bright, Be th' Angels and Archangels, which attend On God's own person, without rest or end. These thus in fair each other far excelling, As to the highest they approach more near, Yet is that highest far beyond all telling, Fairer than all the rest which there appear, Though all their beauties join'd together were; How then can mortal tongue hope to express The image of such endless perfectness? Cease then, my tongue, and lend unto my mind Leave to bethink how great that beauty is, Whose utmost parts so beautiful I find; How much more those essential parts of his, His truth, his love, his wisdom, and his bliss, His grace, his doom, his mercy, and his might, By which he lends us of himself a sight. Those unto all he daily doth display, And shew himself in th' image of his grace, As in a looking-glass, through which he may Be seen of all his creatures vile and base, That are unable else to see his face, His glorious face which glistereth else so bright, That th' Angels selves cannot endure his sight. But we, frail wights, whose sight cannot sustain The sun's bright beams when he on us doth shine, But that their points rebutted back again Are dull'd, how can we see with feeble eyne The glory of that Majesty Divine, In sight of whom both sun and moon are dark, Compared to his least resplendent spark? The means, therefore, which unto us is lent Him to behold, is on his works to look, Which he hath made in beauty excellent, And in the same, as in a brazen book, To read enregister'd in every nook His goodness, which his beauty doth declare; For all that's good is beautiful and fair. Thence gathering plumes of perfect speculation, To imp the wings of thy high-flying mind, Mount up aloft through heavenly contemplation, From this dark world, whose damps the soul so blind, And, like the native brood of eagles' kind, On that bright Sun of Glory fix thine eyes, Clear'd from gross mists of frail infirmities. Humbled with fear and awful reverence, Before the footstool of his majesty Throw thyself down, with trembling innocence, Ne dare look up with corruptible eye On the dread face of that great Deity, For fear, lest if he chance to look on thee, Thou turn to nought, and quite confounded be. But lowly fall before his mercy seat, Close covered with the Lamb's integrity From the just wrath of his avengeful threat That sits upon the righteous throne on high; His throne is built upon eternity, More firm and durable than steel or brass, Or the hard diamond, which them both doth pass. His sceptre is the rod of righteousness, With which he bruiseth all his foes to dust, And the great Dragon strongly doth repress, Under the rigour of his judgement just; His seat is truth, to which the faithful trust, From whence proceed her beams so pure and bright That all about him sheddeth glorious light: Light far exceeding that bright blazing spark Which darted is from Titan's flaming head, That with his beams enlumineth the dark And dampish air, whereby all things are read; Whose nature yet so much is marvelled Of mortal wits, that it doth much amaze The greatest wizards which thereon do gaze. But that immortal light, which there doth shine, Is many thousand times more bright, more clear, More excellent, more glorious, more divine, Through which to God all mortal actions here, And even the thoughts of men, do plain appear; For from th' eternal truth it doth proceed, Through heavenly virtue which her beams do breed. With the great glory of that wondrous light His throne is all encompassed around, And hid in his own brightness from the sight Of all that look thereon with eyes unsound; And underneath his feet are to be found Thunder and lightning and tempestuous fire, The instruments of his avenging ire. There in his bosom Sapience doth sit, The sovereign darling of the Deity, Clad like a queen in royal robes, most fit For so great power and peerless majesty, And all with gems and jewels gorgeously Adorn'd, that brighter than the stars appear, And make her native brightness seem more clear. And on her head a crown of purest gold Is set, in sign of highest sovereignty; And in her hand a sceptre she doth hold, With which she rules the house of God on high, And manageth the ever-moving sky, And in the same these lower creatures all Subjected to her power imperial. Both heaven and earth obey unto her will, And all the creatures which they both contain; For of her fullness which the world doth fill They all partake, and do in state remain As their great Maker did at first ordain, Through observation of her high behest, By which they first were made, and still increast. The fairness of her face no tongue can tell; For she the daughters of all women's race, And angels eke, in beauty doth excel, Sparkled on her from God's own glorious face, And more increas'd by her own goodly grace, That it doth far exceed all human thought, Ne can on earth compared be to aught. Ne could that painter (had he lived yet) Which pictured Venus with so curious quill, That all posterity admired it, Have portray'd this, for all his mast'ring skill; Ne she herself, had she remained still, And were as fair as fabling wits do feign, Could once come near this beauty sovereign. But had those wits, the wonders of their days, Or that sweet Teian poet, which did spend His plenteous vein in setting forth her praise, Seen but a glimpse of this which I pretend, How wondrously would he her face commend, Above that idol of his feigning thought, That all the world should with his rhymes be fraught. How then dare I, the novice of his art, Presume to picture so divine a wight, Or hope t' express her least perfection's part, Whose beauty fills the heavens with her light, And darks the earth with shadow of her sight? Ah, gentle Muse, thou art too weak and faint The portrait of so heavenly hue to paint. Let angels, which her goodly face behold And see at will, her sovereign praises sing, And those most sacred mysteries unfold Of that fair love of mighty heaven's King; Enough is me t' admire so heavenly thing, And being thus with her huge love possest, In th' only wonder of herself to rest. But whoso may, thrice happy man him hold, Of all on earth whom God so much doth grace And lets his own beloved to behold; For in the view of her celestial face All joy, all bliss, all happiness, have place; Ne aught on earth can want unto the wight Who of herself can win the wishful sight. For she, out of her secret treasury, Plenty of riches forth on him will pour, Even heavenly riches, which there hidden lie Within the closet of her chastest bower, Th' eternal portion of her precious dower, Which mighty God hath given to her free, And to all those which thereof worthy be. None thereof worthy be, but those whom she Vouchsafeth to her presence to receive, And letteth them her lovely face to see, Whereof such wondrous pleasures they conceive, And sweet contentment, that it doth bereave Their soul of sense, through infinite delight, And them transport from flesh into the spright. In which they see such admirable things, As carries them into an ecstasy, And hear such heavenly notes, and carollings Of God's high praise, that fills the brazen sky; And feel such joy and pleasure inwardly, That maketh them all worldly cares forget, And only think on that before them set. Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense, Or idle thought of earthly things, remain; But all that erst seem'd sweet seems now offence, And all that pleased erst now seems to pain; Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain, Is fixed all on that which now they see; All other sights but feigned shadows be. And that fair lamp, which useth to inflame The hearts of men with self-consuming fire Thenceforth seems foul, and full of sinful blame; And all that pomp to which proud minds aspire By name of honour, and so much desire, Seems to them baseness, and all riches dross, And all mirth sadness, and all lucre loss. So full their eyes are of that glorious sight, And senses fraught with such satiety, That in nought else on earth they can delight, But in th' aspect of that felicity, Which they have written in their inward eye; On which they feed, and in their fastened mind All happy joy and full contentment find. Ah, then, my hungry soul, which long hast fed On idle fancies of thy foolish thought, And, with false beauty's flatt'ring bait misled, Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought, Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought But late repentance through thy follies prief; Ah cease to gaze on matter of thy grief: And look at last up to that sovereign light, From whose pure beams all perfect beauty springs, That kindleth love in every godly sprite, Even the love of God, which loathing brings Of this vile world and these gay-seeming things; With whose sweet pleasures being so possest, Thy straying thoughts henceforth for ever rest.

When the windows of the West Side clash like cymbals in the setting sunlight, And when wind wails amid the East Side’s aerials, And when, both north and south of thirty-fourth street, In all the dizzy buildings, The elevators clack their teeth and rattle the bars of their cages, Then the children of the city, Leaving the monkey-houses of their office-buildings and apartments, With the greatest difficulty open their mouths, and sing: “Queen among the cities of the Earth: New York! Rich as a cake, common as a doughnut, Expensive as a fur and crazy as cocaine, We love to hear you shake Your big face like a shining bank Letting the mad world know you’re full of dimes! ”This is your night to make maraccas out of all that metal money Paris is in the prison-house, and London dies of cancer. This is the time for you to whirl, Queen of our hopped-up peace, And let the excitement of your somewhat crippled congas Supersede the waltzes of more shining Capitals that have been bombed. “Meanwhile we, your children, Weeping in our seasick zoo of windows while you dance, Will gobble aspirins, And try to keep our cage from caving in. All the while our minds will fill with these petitions, Flowering quietly in between our gongs of pulse. These will have to serve as prayers: “ ‘O lock us in the safe jails of thy movies! Confine us to the semiprivate wards and white asylums Of the unbearable cocktail parties, O New York! Sentence us for life to the penitentiaries of thy bars and nightclubs, And leave us stupefied forever by the blue, objective lights That fill the pale infirmaries of thy restaurants, And the clinics of thy schools and offices, And the operating-rooms of thy dance-halls. “ ‘But never give us any explanations, even when we ask, Why all our food tastes of iodoform, And even the freshest flowers smell of funerals. No, never let us look about us long enough to wonder Which of the rich men, shivering in the overheated office, And which of the poor men, sleeping face-down on the Daily Mirror, Are still alive, and which are dead.’ ”

From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings. Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth, And of Heaven, and the giant wars, And Love, and Death, and Birth— And then I chang'd my pipings, Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursu'd a maiden and clasp'd a reed. Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed. All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Thou hidden love of God, whose height, Whose depth unfathom’d no man knows, I see from far thy beauteous light, Inly I sigh for thy repose; My heart is pain’d, nor can it be At rest, till it finds rest in thee. Thy secret voice invites me still, The sweetness of thy yoke to prove: And fain I would: but tho’ my will Seem fix’d, yet wide my passions rove; Yet hindrances strew all the way; I aim at thee, yet from thee stray. ’Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought My mind to seek her peace in thee; Yet while I seek, but find thee not, No peace my wand’ring soul shall see; O when shall all my wand’rings end, And all my steps to thee-ward tend! Is there a thing beneath the sun That strives with thee my heart to share? Ah! tear it thence, and reign alone, The Lord of ev’ry motion there; Then shall my heart from earth be free, When it hath found repose in thee. O hide this self from me, that I No more, but Christ in me may live; My vile affections crucify, Nor let one darling lust survive; In all things nothing may I see, Nothing desire or seek but thee. O Love, thy sov’reign aid impart, To save me from low-thoughted care: Chase this self-will thro’ all my heart, Thro’ all its latent mazes there: Make me thy duteous child, that I Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry! Ah no! ne’er will I backward turn: Thine wholly, thine alone I am! Thrice happy he who views with scorn Earth’s toys, for thee his constant flame; O help that I may never move From the blest footsteps of thy love! Each moment draw from earth away My heart that lowly waits thy call: Speak to my inmost soul, and say, I am thy love, thy God, thy all! To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, To taste thy love, be all my choice.

Childhood? Which childhood? The one that didn’t last? The one in which you learned to be afraid of the boarded-up well in the backyard and the ladder in the attic? The one presided over by armed men in ill-fitting uniforms strolling the streets and alleys, while loudspeakers declared a new era, and the house around you grew bigger, the rooms farther apart, with more and more people missing? The photographs whispered to each other from their frames in the hallway. The cooking pots said your name each time you walked past the kitchen. And you pretended to be dead with your sister in games of rescue and abandonment. You learned to lie still so long the world seemed a play you viewed from the muffled safety of a wing. Look! In run the servants screaming, the soldiers shouting, turning over the furniture, smashing your mother’s china. Don’t fall asleep. Each act opens with your mother reading a letter that makes her weep. Each act closes with your father fallen into the hands of Pharaoh. Which childhood? The one that never ends? O you, still a child, and slow to grow. Still talking to God and thinking the snow falling is the sound of God listening, and winter is the high-ceilinged house where God measures with one eye an ocean wave in octaves and minutes, and counts on many fingers all the ways a child learns to say Me. Which childhood? The one from which you’ll never escape? You, so slow to know what you know and don’t know. Still thinking you hear low song in the wind in the eaves, story in your breathing, grief in the heard dove at evening, and plentitude in the unseen bird tolling at morning. Still slow to tell memory from imagination, heaven from here and now, hell from here and now, death from childhood, and both of them from dreaming.

Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore, I shall be made thy music; as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then, think here before. Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown That this is my south-west discovery, Per fretum febris, by these straits to die, I joy, that in these straits I see my west; For, though their currents yield return to none, What shall my west hurt me? As west and east In all flat maps (and I am one) are one, So death doth touch the resurrection. Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem? Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar, All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them, Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem. We think that Paradise and Calvary, Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place; Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me; As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace. So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord; By these his thorns, give me his other crown; And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word, Be this my text, my sermon to mine own: "Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down."

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; And, having done that, thou hast done; I fear no more.