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Title: The Request
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
O thou who didst deny to me
This world's ador'd felicity,
And ev'ry big imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful dust,
With those fine subtle twists, that tie
Their bundles of foul gallantry--
Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
Of those gay things which are not Thine!
And shut my ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
For Thou in any land hast store
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor;
Where from the busy dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.
A rock or bush are downy beds,
When Thou art there, crowning their heads
With secret blessings, or a tire
Made of the Comforter's live fire.
And when Thy goodness in the dress
Of anger will not seem to bless,
Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,
Which, as it drops, clears all again.
O what kind visits daily pass
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:
With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
On those low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crowns imperial die with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
Give me that joy, which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve!
This is the portion Thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: Request
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