445 Religion poems

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.

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.

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.

Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part. Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein thy Love. If thou hadst not Been stern to me, But left me free, I had forgot Myself and thee. For sin's so sweet, As minds ill-bent Rarely repent, Until they meet Their punishment. Who more can crave Than thou hast done? That gav'st a Son, To free a slave, First made of nought; With all since bought. Sin, Death, and Hell His glorious name Quite overcame, Yet I rebel And slight the same. But I'll come in Before my loss Me farther toss, As sure to win Under His cross.

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain; Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing, Exhales the incense of the blooming spring. Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats. Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below! Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin. Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Love, thou are absolute sole lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We’ll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown; Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud into the face of death Their great Lord’s glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat, And see him take a private seat, Making his mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learn’d to lisp the name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death. She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do; Nor has she e’er yet understood Why to show love she should shed blood; Yet though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die. Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has she’a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love. Be love but there, let poor six years Be pos’d with the maturest fears Man trembles at, you straight shall find Love knows no nonage, nor the mind. ’Tis love, not years or limbs that can Make the martyr, or the man. Love touch’d her heart, and lo it beats High, and burns with such brave heats, Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up A thousand cold deaths in one cup. Good reason, for she breathes all fire; Her weak breast heaves with strong desire Of what she may with fruitless wishes Seek for amongst her mother’s kisses. Since ’tis not to be had at home, She’ll travel to a martyrdom. No home for hers confesses she But where she may a martyr be. She’ll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem. She’ll offer them her dearest breath, With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death. She’ll bargain with them, and will give Them God; teach them how to live In him; or, if they this deny, For him she’ll teach them how to die. So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord’s blood, or at least her own. Farewell then, all the world, adieu! Teresa is no more for you. Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and joys, (Never till now esteemed toys) Farewell, whatever dear may be, Mother’s arms or father’s knee, Farewell house and farewell home, She’s for the Moors, and martyrdom! Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T’ embrace a milder martyrdom. Blest powers forbid thy tender life Should bleed upon a barbarous knife; Or some base hand have power to rase Thy breast’s chaste cabinet, and uncase A soul kept there so sweet; oh no, Wise Heav’n will never have it so; Thou art Love’s victim, and must die A death more mystical and high; Into Love’s arms thou shalt let fall A still-surviving funeral. He is the dart must make the death Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow’d breath; A dart thrice dipp’d in that rich flame Which writes thy spouse’s radiant name Upon the roof of heav’n, where aye It shines, and with a sovereign ray Beats bright upon the burning faces Of souls, which in that name’s sweet graces Find everlasting smiles. So rare, So spiritual, pure, and fair Must be th’ immortal instrument Upon whose choice point shall be sent A life so lov’d; and that there be Fit executioners for thee, The fair’st and first-born sons of fire, Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire And turn Love’s soldiers, upon thee To exercise their archery. Oh, how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain, Of intolerable joys, Of a death in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would forever so be slain, And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he thus may never leave to die. How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam to heal themselves with. Thus When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at last die into one, And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to Heav’n at last In a resolving sigh; and then, O what? Ask not the tongues of men; Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shall feel thine own full joys And hold them fast forever. There So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come And in her first ranks make thee room; Where ’mongst her snowy family Immortal welcomes wait for thee. O what delight, when reveal’d Life shall stand And teach thy lips heav’n with his hand, On which thou now mayst to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses. What joys shall seize thy soul when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, (Those second smiles of heav’n) shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart! Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before And waited for thee, at the door, Shall own thee there, and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee; All thy sorrows here shall shine, All thy suff’rings be divine; Tears shall take comfort and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Ev’n thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul that erst they slew; Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb’s wars. Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ Love’s noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heav’nly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee, Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about and see Thousands of crown’d souls throng to be Themselves thy crown; sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy sovereign spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul, go now And with them all about thee, bow To him. “Put on,” he’ll say, “put on, My rosy love, that thy rich zone Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls whose happy names Heav’n keeps upon thy score. Thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars.” And so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go, And wheresoe’er he sets his white Steps, walk with him those ways of light Which who in death would live to see Must learn in life to die like thee.

1 Come on, my partners in distress, My comrades through the wilderness, Who still your bodies feel; Awhile forget your griefs and fears, And look beyond this vale of tears To that celestial hill. 2 Beyond the bounds of time and space Look forward to that heavenly place, The saints’ secure abode; On faith’s strong eagle pinions rise, And force your passage to the skies, And scale the mount of God. 3 Who suffer with our Master here, We shall before his face appear, And by his side sit down; To patient faith the prize is sure, And all that to the end endure The cross, shall wear the crown. 4 Thrice blessed bliss-inspiring hope! It lifts the fainting spirits up, It brings to life the dead; Our conflicts here shall soon be past, And you and I ascend at last Triumphant with our head. 5 The great mysterious Deity We soon with open face shall see; The beatific sight Shall fill heaven’s sounding courts with praise, And wide diffuse the golden blaze Of everlasting light. 6 The Father shining on his throne, The glorious, co-eternal Son, The Spirit, one and seven, Conspire our rapture to complete, And lo! we fall before his feet, And silence heightens heaven. 7 In hope of that ecstatic pause, Jesu, we now sustain the cross, And at thy footstool fall, Till thou our hidden life reveal, Till thou our ravished spirits fill, And God is all in all.

1 My God! I know, I feel thee mine, And will not quit my claim Till all I have is lost in thine, And all renewed I am. 2 I hold thee with a trembling hand, But will not let thee go Till steadfastly by faith I stand, And all thy goodness know. 3 When shall I see the welcome hour That plants my God in me! Spirit of health, and life, and power, And perfect liberty! 4 Jesu, thine all-victorious love Shed in my heart abroad! Then shall my feet no longer rove, Rooted and fixed in God. 5 Love only can the conquest win, The strength of sin subdue (Mine own unconquerable sin), And form my soul anew. 6 Love can bow down the stubborn neck, The stone to flesh convert; Soften, and melt, and pierce, and break An adamantine heart. 7 Oh, that in me the sacred fire Might now begin to glow, Burn up the dross of base desire, And make the mountains flow! 8 Oh, that it now from heaven might fall, And all my sins consume! Come, Holy Ghost, for thee I call, Spirit of burning, come! 9 Refining fire, go through my heart, Illuminate my soul; Scatter thy life through every part, And sanctify the whole. 10 Sorrow and sin shall then expire, While, entered into rest, I only live my God t’admire— My God forever blest. 11 No longer then my heart shall mourn, While purified by grace I only for his glory burn, And always see his face. 12 My steadfast soul, from falling free, Shall then no longer move; But Christ be all the world to me, And all my heart be love.

For why am I afraid to sing the fundamental shape of awe should I now begin to sing the silvered back of the winter willow spear the sparkling agate blue would this blade and this sky free me to speak intransitive lack – the vowels themselves free Of what am I afraid of what lies in back of me of day these stars scattered as far as the I what world and wherefore will it shake free why now in the mind of an afternoon is a daisy for a while flagrant and alive Then what of night of hours’ unpredicated bad luck and the rot it clings to fathomless on the far side in winter dark Hey shadow world when a thing comes back comes back unseen but felt and no longer itself what then what silver world mirrors tarnished lenses what fortune what fate and the forms not themselves but only itself the sky by water and wind shaken I am born in silvered dark Of what am I to see these things between myself and nothing between the curtain and the stain between the hypostatic scenes of breathing and becoming the thing I see are they not the same Things don’t look good on the street today beside a tower in a rusting lot one is a condition the other mystery even this afternoon light so kind and nourishing a towering absence vibrating air Shake and I see pots from old shake and I see cities anew I see robes shake I see desert I see the farthing in us all the ghost of day the day inside night as tones decay and border air it is the old songs and the present wind I sing and say I love the unknown sound in a word Mother where from did you leave me on the sleeve of a dying word of impish laughter in the midst my joy I compel and confess open form my cracked hinged picture doubled I can’t remember now if I made a pact with the devil when I was young when I was high on a sidewalk I hear “buy a sweatshirt?” and think buy a shirt from the sweat of children hell I’m just taking a walk in the sun in a poem and this sound caught in the most recent coup