 section one of selected poems by George Herbert. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Thomas Copeland. Selected poems by George Herbert, section one. The altar. A broken altar lowered thy servant's rears, made of a heart and cemented with tears. Whose parts are as thy hand did frame? No workman's tool had touched the same. A heart alone is such a stone as nothing but thy power doth cut, wherefore each part of my hard heart meets in this frame to praise thy name. That if I chance to hold my peace these stones to praise thee may not cease. Oh, let thy blessed sacrifice be mine, and sanctify this altar to be thine. The agony. Philosophers of measured mountains, fathomed the depths of seas, of states, and kings, walked with a staff to heaven and traced fountains. But there are two vast spacious things that which to measure it hath more behoove, yet few there are that sound but sin and love. Who would know sin? Let him repair unto Mount Olivet. There shall we see a man so rung with pains that all his hair, his skin, his garments bloody be. Sin is that press and vice which forces pain to hunt his cruel food through every vein. Who knows not love? Let him assay and taste that juice which on the cross a pipe did set again a brooch. Then let him say if ever he did taste alike. Love is that liquor sweet and most divine which my God feels as blood, but I as wine, the sinner. Lord how I am all ague when I seek what I have treasured in my memory. Since if my soul make even with a week each seventh note by right is due to thee, I find there quarries of piled vanities, but shreds of holiness that dare not venture to show their face since crossed thy decrees. There the circumference earth is heaven the center. In so much drakes the quintessence is small. The spirit and good extract of my heart comes to about the many hundredth art. Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call, and though my hard heart scares to thee can groan, remember that thou once didst write in stone. Good Friday. Oh my chief good, how shall I measure out thy blood? How shall I count what Theba fell and each grief tell? Shall I their woes number according to thy foes? Or since one star should thy first breath shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf which falls in autumn score grief? Or cannot leaves but fruit be sign of the true vine? Then let each hour of my whole life one grief devour, that thy distress through all may run and be my son. Or rather let my several sins their sorrows get that as each beast is cured of no, each sin may so. Second poem. Since blood is fittest Lord to write thy sorrows in and bloody fight my heart hath store right there where in one box doth lie both ink and sin. That when sin spies so many foes thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes all come to large there. Sin may say no room for me and fly away. Sin being gone, O fill the place and keep possession with thy grace lest sin take courage and return. And all the writings blot or burn. Redemption. Having been tenant long to a rich lord, not thriving, I resolved to be bold and make a suit unto him to afford a new small rented feast and cancel old. In heaven, at his manner, I him sought. They told me there that he was lately gone about some land which he had dearly bought long since on earth to take possession. I straight returned, and knowing his great birth sought him accordingly in great resorts in cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts. At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth of thieves and murderers. There I him aspired, who straight, who suited granted, said, and died, sepulcher. O blessed body, wither at the throne, no lodging for thee but a cold hard stone, so many hearts on earth and yet not one receive thee. Sure there is room within our hearts, good store, for they can lodge transgressions by the score. Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door they leave thee. But that which shows them large, shows them unfit. Whatever sin did this pure rock commit which holds thee now? Who hath indicted it of murder? Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee, and missing this most falsely to derain thee, only these stones in quiet entertain thee and order. And as of old the law by heaven the art was written stone, so thou, which also art the letter of the word, binds no fit heart to hold thee. Yet do we still persist as we began? And so should perish, but that nothing can, though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man would hold thee. Easter, rise, heart, thy lord is risen. Sing his praise without delays, who takes thee by the hand that thou likewise with him mayst rise. That as his death calcined thee to dust, his life may make thee gold, and much more just. Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part with all thy art. The cross taught all wood to resound his name who bore the same. His stretchered sinews taught all strings what key is best to celebrate this most high day. Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song pleasant and long. Or since all music is but three parts wide and multiplied, oh, let thy blessed spirit bear apart, and make up our defects with his sweet art. The song. I got me flowers to straw thy way. I got me boughs of many a tree, but thou was up by break of day, and brought thy sweets along with thee. The sun rising in the east, though he give light and yeast perfume, if they should offer to contest with thy rising, they presume. Can there be any day but this, though many suns to shine and ever? We count three hundred, but we miss. There is but one, and that one, ever. Another version from the Williams manuscript. I had prepared many a flower to straw thy way and victory, but thou was up before mine hour, bringing thy sweets along with thee. The sun rising in the east, though he bring light and other scents, cannot make up so brave a feast as thy discovery presents. Yet though my flowers be lost, they say a heart can never come too late. Teach it to sing thy praise this day, and then this day my life shall date. Easter wings. Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, though foolishly be lost the same, decaying more and more till he became most poor. With thee, O let me rise, as larks harmoniously, and sing this day thy victorize. Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did begin, and still with sicknesses and shame, thou didst so punish sin that I became most thin. With thee, let me combine and feel this day thy victory, for if I imp my wing on thine, affliction shall advance the flight in me. End of section one of Selected Poems by George Herbert Recording by Thomas Copeland Section two of Selected Poems by George Herbert This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Thomas Copeland Selected Poems by George Herbert Section two Nature Full of rebellion I would die, or fight, or travel, or deny that thou hast ought to do with me. O tame my heart, it is thy highest art to captivate strongholds to thee. If thou shalt let this venom lurk, and in suggestions fume and work, my soul will turn to bubble straight, and thence, by kind, vanish into a wine, making thy workmanship deceit. O smooth my rugged heart, and there engrave thy reverent law and fear, or make a new one, since the old is sapless grown, and a much-fitter stone to hide my dust, the need to hold. Sin Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round? Parents first season us, then schoolmasters deliver us to laws. They send us bound to rules of reason, holy messengers, pulpits and sundays, sorrow-dogging sin, afflictions sorted, anguish at all sizes, fine nets and stratogens to catch us in. Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, the sound of glory ringing in our ears, without our shame, within our consciences, angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears. Yet all these fences and their whole array, one cunning bosom sin blows quite away. Affliction When first, thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave. So many joys I ripped down from my part, besides what I might have out of my stock of natural delights, augmented with thy graces' perquisance. I looked on thy furniture so fine and made it fine to me. Thy glorious household stuffeded me in twine and ticed me unto thee. Such stars I counted mine, both heaven and earth paid me why wages in a world of mirth. What pleasures could I want whose king I served, where joys my fellows were? Thus argued it to hopes, my thoughts reserved no place for grief or fear. Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, and made her youth and fierceness seek thy face. At first thou gavest me milk and sweetnesses. I had my wish and way. My days were stalled with flowers and happinesses. There was no month but May. But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, and made a party unawares for wool. My flesh regained unto my soul in pain. Sicknesses cleave my bones, consuming egg use dwell in every vein, and tune my breath to groans. Sorrow was all my soul. I scarce believed till grief did tell me roundly that I lived. When I got health, thou tookst away my life, and more, for my friends died. My mirth and edge was lost. A blunted knife was of more use than I. Thus thin and lean, without a fence or friend, I was blown through with every storm and wind. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took the way that takes the town, thou didst betray me to a lingering book and wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in the world of strife before I had the power to change my life. Yet, for I threatened off the siege to raise, not simpering all my nage, thou often didst with academic praise melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweetened pill till I came near. I could not go away nor persevere. Yet, lest perchance I should too happy be in my unhappiness, turning my purge to food, thou throwest me into more sicknesses. Thus, doth thy power cross-bias me, not making thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking. Now I am here. What thou wilt do with me? None of my books will show. I read and sigh and wish I were a tree, for sure then I should grow to fruit or shade. At least some bird would trust her household to me, and I should be just. Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek. In weakness must be stout. Well, I will change the service and go seek some other master out. Oh, my dear God, though I am clean for God, let me not love thee if I love thee not. Repentance, Lord, I confess my sin is great, great is my sin. O gently treat with thy quick flower thy momentary bloom, whose life still pressing is one undressing, a steady aiming at a tune. Man's age is two hours worth, or three. Each day doth round about a sea. Thus are we to delights, that we are all to sorrow's old, if life be told from what life feeleth, Adam's fall. Oh, let thy height of mercy then compassionate short-breathed men, cut me not off from my most foul transgression, I do confess my foolishness, my God, except of my confession. Sweeten at length this bitter bowl which thou hast ordered by soul, thy wormwood turn to health, winds to fair weather, for if thou stay, high in this day as we did rise, we die together. When thou for sin rebukeest man forthwith, he waxeth woe and wan. Bitterness fills our bowels, all our hearts pine and decay, and drop away, and carry with them th'other parts. But thou wilt sin and grief destroy, so that the broken bones may joy and tune together in a well-set song full of his praises, who dead men raises. Fractures well cured make us more strong. Faith, Lord, how couldst thou so much appease thy wrath for sin, as when man's sight was dim and could see little, to regard his ease and bring by faith all things to him. Hungry I was and had no meat, I did concede a most delicious feast, I had it straight, and did as truly eat as ever did a welcome guest. There is a rare outlandish root which, when I could not get, I thought it here. That apprehension cured so well my foot that I can walk to heaven well near. I owe it thousands and much more. I did believe that I did nothing now, and lived accordingly. My creditor believes so too, and lets me go. Faith makes me anything or all that I believe is in the sacred story, and where sin places me in Adam's fall, faith sets me higher in his glory. If I go lower in the book, what can be lower than the common manger? Faith puts me there with him who sweetly took our flesh and frailty, death, and danger. If bliss had lain in art or strength, none but the wise or strong had gain at it, where now by faith all arms are of a length, one size doth all conditions fit. A peasant may be leave as much as a great clerk, and reach the highest stature. Thus doth thou make proud knowledge bend and crouch, while grace fills up uneven nature. When creatures had no real light inherent in them, thou didst make the sun impute a luster, and allow them bright, and in this show what Christ hath done. That which before was dark and clean with bushy groves tricking the looker's eye, vanished away when faith did change the scene, and then appeared a glorious sky. What though my body run to dust, faith cleaves unto it, counting every grain with an exact and most particular trust, reserving all for flesh again. Prayer, prayer, the church's banquet, angels age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, the soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, the Christian plummet sounding heaven and earth, engine against the almighty, sinner's tower, reverse at thunder, Christ's side piercing spear, the six days' world transposing in an hour, a kind of tune which all things hear and fear, softness and peace, and joy and love and bliss, exalted man a gladness of the best, heaven in ordinary, man well-dressed, the milky way, the bird of paradise, church bells beyond the stars' herm, the soul's blood, the land of spices, something understood in the holy communion, not in rich furniture or fine array, nor in a wedge of gold, thou who from me was sold and to me dust now thyself convey, for so thou shouldst without me still have been, leaving within me sin. But by the way of nourishment and strength thou creeps'd into my breast, making thy way my rest, and thy small quantities my length, which spread their forces into every part, meeting sins, force, and art. Yet can these not get over to my soul, leaping the wall that parts our souls and fleshly hearts, but as thou works, they may control my revel flesh, and carrying thy name, a fright, both sin and shame. Only thy grace, which with these elements comes, knoweth the ready way, and hath the privy key, opening the soul's most subtle rooms, while those to spirits refined, at door, attend dispatchers from their friend. Second poet, give me my captive soul, for take my body also thither. Another lift like this will make them both to be together. Before that sin turned flesh to stone, and all our lump to leaven, a fervent sigh might well have blown our innocent earth to heaven, for sure when Adam did not know to sin or sin to smother, he might to heaven from paradise go, as from one room to another. Thou hast restored us to disease by this, thy heavenly blood, which I can go to when I please, and leave the earth to their food. Antiphon, let all the world in every corner sing my God and King. The heavens are not too high, his praise may dither fly, the earth is not too low, his praises there may grow. Let all the world in every corner sing my God and King. The church with psalms must shout, no door can keep them out, but above all the heart must bear the longest part. Let all the world in every corner sing my God and King. The temper, one. How should I praise thee, Lord? How should my rhymes gladly engrave thy loving steel, if what my soul doth feel sometimes my soul might ever feel? Although there were some forty heavens or more, sometimes I peer above them all, sometimes I hardly reach a score, sometimes to hell I fall. O rack me not to such a vast extent, those distances belong to thee, the world's too little for thy tent, a grave too big for me. Will thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch a crumb of dust, from heaven to hell, will great God measure with a wretch? Shall he thy stature spell? O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid, O let me roost and nestle there, then of a sinner thou art rid, and I of hope and fear. Yet take thy way, for sure thy way is best. Stretch or contract me thy poor debtor. This is but tuning of my breast to make the music better. Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust, thy hands may both, and I am there. Thy power and love, my love and trust, make one place everywhere. Jordan, who says that fictions only and false hair become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines pass except they do their duty not to a true but painted chair? Is it not verse except enchanted groves and sudden arbors, shadow coarse spun lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? Must all be veiled while he that reads divines, catching the sense it too removes? Shepherds are honest people, let them sing. Riddle who list for me and pull for prime, I envy no man's nightingale or spring. Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme, who plainly say my God, my King. Mattons, I cannot oak my knives, but thou art ready there to catch my morning soul and sacrifice. Then we must needs for that day make a match. My God, what is a heart, silver or gold or precious stone, or star or rainbow, or a part of all these things? For all of them in one. My God, what is a heart that thou shouldst eat so eye and wool, pouring upon it all thy art, as if thou it's nothing else to do? Indeed, man's whole estate amounts and richly to serve thee. He did not heaven and earth create, yet studies them, not him by whom they be. Teach me, thy love to know, that this new light, which now I see, may both the work and workmen show. Then, by a sunbeam, I will climb to thee. Church music. Sweetest of sweets, I thank you. When displeasure did through my body wound my mind, you took me thence, and in your house of pleasure, dainty lodging ye assigned. Now, I in you without a body move, rising and falling with your wings. We both together sweetly live and love, yet say sometimes, God help poor kings. Comfort, I'll die, for if you post from me, sure I shall do so, and much more. But if I travel in your company, you know the way to heaven's door. The church floor. Mark you the floor. That square and speckled stone, which looks so firm and strong, is patience. And other black and grave, wherewith each one is checkered all along, humility. The gentle rising, which on either hand leads to the choir above, is confidence. But the sweet cement, which in one sure band, ties the whole frame, is love and charity. Here there sometimes sin steals and stains the marvels neat and curious veins, but all is cleansed when the marvel weeps. Sometimes death, puffing at the door, blows all the dust about the floor, but while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps. Blessed be the architect, whose art could build so strong in a weak heart. The windows. Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word? He is a brittle, crazy glass. Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford this glorious and transcendent place to be a window through thy grace. But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story, making thy life to shine within the holy preachers, then the light and glory more reverend grows, and more doth win, which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin. Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one when they combine and wrinkle, bring a strong regard and awe. But speech alone doth vanish like a flaring thing, and in the ear, not conscience ring. Humility. I saw the virtues sitting hand in hand in several ranks upon an azure throne, where all the beasts and fowls by their command presented tokens of submission. Humility, who sat the lowest there to execute their call when the beasts the present standard were, gave them about to all. The angry lion did present his paw, which, by consent, was given to man's with you. Note, gentleness returned to text. The fearful hare her ears, which by their law humility did reach de fortitude. The jealous turkey brought his coral chain, that went to temperance. On justice was bestowed the fox's brain, killed in the way, by chance. At length the crow bringing the peacock's plume, for he would nod, as they beheld the grace of that brave gift, each one began to fume and challenge it as proper to his place, till they fell out. Which, when the beasts aspired, they leapt upon the throne. And if the fox had lived to rule their side, they had deposed each one. Humility, who held the plume, at this did weep so fast that the tears trickling down spoiled all the train. Then, saying, here it is for which you wrangle, made them turn their frown against the beasts. So, jointly bandying, they drive them soon away, and then immersed them, double gifts to bring at the next session day. Sunday. O day most calm, most bright, the fruit of this, the next world's bud, the endorsement of supreme delight, written by a friend, and with his blood. The couch of time cares balm and bay, the weak were dark but for their light, thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou make up one man whose face thou art, knocking at heaven with thy brow. The worky days are the back part, the burden of the weak lies there, making the whole to stoop and bow, till thy release appear. Man had straightforward gone to endless death, but thou dost pull and turn us round to look on one whom, if we were not very dull, we could not choose but look on still, since there is no place so alone the witchy doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are on which heaven's palace arched lies. The other days fill up the spare and hollow room with vanities. They are the fruitful beds and borders in God's rich garden. That is bare which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life threaded together on time's string make bracelets to adorn the wife of the eternal glorious king. On Sunday heaven's gate stands open. Blessings are plentiful and rife, more plentiful than hope. This day my Saviour rose, and did enclose this light for his, that as each beast his manger knows, man might not have his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground and made a garden there for those who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation, note, rest day, Sabbath, return to text. Our great Redeemer did remove, with the same shake which, at his passion, did the earth and all things with it move. As Samson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nailed, brought our salvation, and did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day we sullied by our foul offence, wherefore that robe we cast away, having anew at his expense, whose drops of blood paid the full price that was required to make us gay and fit for paradise. Thou art a day of mirth, and where the weekdays trail on ground, thy flight is higher as thy birth. O let me take thee at the bound, leaping with thee from seven to seven, till that we both, being tossed from earth, fly hand in hand to heaven. Averus, money, thou bane of bliss and source of woe, whence comes thou that thou art so fresh and fine? I know thy parentage is base and low, man found thee poor and dirty in a mine. Surely thou didst so little contribute to this great kingdom which thou now has got, that he was feigned when thou were destitute to dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot, then, forcing thee, by fire, he made thee bright. Nay, thou has got the face of man, for we have with our stamp and seal transferred our right. Thou art the man, and man but drops to thee, and calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich. And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch. Anna, Mary, army, grab. How well her name and army doth present in whom the lord of hosts did pitch his tent. Denial. When my devotions could not pierce thy silent ears, then was my heart broken, as was my verse. My breast was full of fears and disorder. My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow, did fly asunder. Each took his way, some would to pleasures go, some to the wars and thunder of alarms. As good go anywhere, they say, as to be numb, both knees and heart, in crying night and day, Come, come, my God, oh, come, but no hearing. Oh, that thou should give dust, a tongue to cry to thee, and then not hear it crying. All day long my heart was in my knee, but no hearing. Therefore my soul lay out of sight, untuned, unstrung. My feeble spirit, unable to look right, like a nipped blossom, hung discontented. Oh, cheer and tune my heartless breast, defer no time, that so thy favours granting my request, they and my soul may chime, and mend my rhyme. Christmas. All after pleasures as I read one day, my horse and I, both tired, body and mind, with full cry of affections, quite astray, I took up in the next din I could find. There when I came, home found I but my dear, my dearest Lord, expecting, till the grief of pleasures brought me to him, ready there to be all passengers most sweet relief. O thou, whose glorious yet contracted light, wrapped in night's mantle, stole into a manger, since my dark soul and brutish is thy right, to man of all beasts, be not thou a stranger. Furnish and deck my soul, that thou mayst have a better lodging than a rack or grave. Note, racking his manger, return to text. The shepherd sing, and shall I silent be? My God, know him for thee? My soul's a shepherd too, a flock it feeds of thoughts and words and deeds. The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace, enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers out sing the daylight hours. Then we will chide the sun for letting night take up his place at right. We sing one common Lord, wherefore he should himself the candle hold. I will go searching till I find a sun shall stay till we have done, a willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly as frostnip suns look sadly. Then we will sing and shine all our own day, and one another pay. His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine till even his beams sing, and my music shine. Size and groans. Oh, do not use me after my sins. Look not on my dessert, but on thy glory. Then thou wilt reform and not refuse me. For thou only art the mighty God. But I, a silly worm, oh, do not bruise me. Oh, do not urge me. For what account can thy ill steward make? I have abused thy flock, destroyed thy woods, sucked all thy magazines. My head did ache till it found out how to consume thy goods. Oh, do not scourge me. Oh, do not blind me. I have deserved that an Egyptian night should thicken all my powers, because my lust hath still sewed fig leaves to exclude thy light. But I am frailty and already dust. Oh, do not grind me. Oh, do not fill me with the turned vial of thy bitter wrath. For thou hast other vessels full of blood, the part whereof my Savior emptied hath, even unto death. Since he died for my good, oh, do not kill me, but oh, reprieve me. For thou hast life and death at thy command. Thou art both judge and Savior, feast and rod, cordial and corrosive. Hoot not thy hand into the bitter box, but oh, my God, my God, relieve me. Vanity The fleet astronomer can bore and thread the spheres with his quick piercing mind. He views their stations, walks from door to door, surveys as if he had designed to make a purchase there. He sees their dances and knoweth long before both their full-eyed aspects and secret glances. The nimble diver with his side cuts through the working waves that he may fetch his dearly-earned pearl, which God did hide on purpose from the ventrous wretch that he might save his life, and also hers who, with excessive pride, her own destruction and his danger wears. The subtle gimmick can divest and strip the creature naked to define the callow principles within their nest. There he imparts to them his mind, admitted to their bedchamber before they appear trimmed and dressed to ordinary suitors at the door. What hath not man sought out and found but his dear God, who yet his glorious law embosoms in us, mellowing the ground with showers and frosts, with love and awe, so that we need not say, where is this command? Poor man, thou searchest round to find out death, but missest life at hand. Lent. Welcome, dear feast of Lent. Who loves not thee, he loves not temperance or authority, but is a child of passion. The scriptures bid us fast. The church says, now give to thy mother, but thou wouldst allow to every corporation. The humble soul, composed of love and fear, begins at home and lays the burden there when doctrines disagree. He says, in things which ye us hath justly got, I am a scandal to the church, but not the church or so to me. True Christians should be glad of an occasion to use their temperance, seeking no evasion when good is seasonable, and thus authority, which should increase the obligation in us, make it less, and power itself disable. Besides the cleanness of sweet abstinence, quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, a face not fearing light, whereas in fullness there are sluttish fumes, sour exhalations, and dishonest rooms, revenging the delight. Then those same pendant prophets, which should spring and Easter intimate, enlarge the thing and goodness of the deed. Neither ought other men's abuse of lent spoil our good use, lest, by that argument, we forfeit all our creed. Note, believe, return to text. It's true we cannot reach Christ's 40th day, yet to go part of that religious way is better than to rest, we cannot reach our Saviour's purity, yet are we bid to be holy even as he? In both, let's do our best. Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, is much more sure to meet with him than one that traveleth by ways. Perhaps my God, though he be far before, may turn and take me by the hand, and more may strengthen my decays. Yet, Lord, instruct us to improve our fast by starving sin, and taking such repast as may our faults control, that every man may revel at his door, not at his parlor, vanquitting the poor, and among these his soul, virtue. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, the bridle of the earth and sky, and you shall weep thy fall tonight, for thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, bids the rash, gaze her, wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave, and thou must die. Sweets bring full sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closers, and all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber, never gives, but though the whole world turned to coal, then chiefly lives. The Pearl, Matthew 13. I know the ways of learning, both the head and pipes that feed the press and make it run, what reason hath from nature burrowed, or of itself, like a good husset, spun on laws and policies. What the stars conspire, what willing nature speaks, what forced by fire, both though discoveries, and the newfound seas, the stock and surplus cause and history. All these stand open, or I have the keys. Yet I love thee. I know the ways of honour, what maintains the quick returns of courtesy and wit, in vise of favours, whether party gains, note, whether which of the two return to text. When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it to all expressions, both of hand and eye, which on the world of true love not may tie, and bear the bundle where soe'r it goes. How many drams of spirit there must be to sell my life unto my friends, or foes. Yet I love thee. I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains, the lullings, and the relishes of it, the propositions of hot blood and brains, what mirth and music mean, what love and wit have done these twenty-hundred years and more. I know the projects of unbridled store. My stuff is flesh, not brass. My senses live, and grumble off that they have more in me than he that curbs them, being but one to five. Yet I love thee. I know all these, and have them in my hand. Therefore not seal it, but with open eyes I fly to thee, and fully understand both the main sale and the commodities, and at what rate and price I have thy love, with all the circumstances that they move. Yet through the labyrinths, not my grumbling wit, but thy silk twist let down from heaven to me, did both conduct and teach me how by it to climb to thee Tentation. Broken in pieces, all asunder, Lord, hunt me not a thing for God, once a poor creature, now a wonder, a wonder tortured in the space betwixt this world and that of grace. My thoughts are all a case of knives wounding my heart, with scattered smart, as watering pots give flowers their lives. Nothing their fury can control while they do wound and prick my soul. All my attendants are at strife, quitting their place into my face. Nothing performs the task of life, the elements are let loops to fight, and while I live, try out their right. O help, my God, let not their plot kill them and me, and also thee who art my life. Dissolve the knot as the sun scatters by his light all the rebellions of the night. Then shall those powers which work for grief enter thy pay, and day by day labor thy praise, and my relief with care and courage, building me till I reach heaven, and much more, thee, man. My God, I heard this day that none doth build a stately habitation, that he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been or can be than his man, to whose creation all things are in decay? For man is everything and more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit, a beast, yet is, oh, should be, more. Reason and speech we only bring. Parents may thank us if they are not mute, they go upon the score. Man is all symmetry, full of proportions one limb to another, and all to all the world besides. Each part may call the farthest brother, for head with foot hath private amity, and both with moons and tides. Nothing hath got so far but man hath caught and kept it as his prey. His eyes dismount the highest star. He is, in little, all the sphere. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because they find their acquaintance there. For us the winds do blow, the earth resteth, heaven moveth, fountains flow. Nothing we see but means our good, as our delight or as our treasure. The whole is either our cupboard of food or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed, night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws. Music and light attend our head. All things into our flesh are kind in their descent and being, to our mind in their ascent and cause. Each thing is full of duty. Waters united are our navigation, distinguished are our habitation. Below our drink, above our meat, both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? Then how are all things neat? More servants wait on man than he'll take notice of. In every path he treads down that which doth befriend him. Note, Herbs return to text. When sickness speaks in pale and wan. O mighty love, man is one world and hath another to attend him. Since then, my God, thou hast so brave a palace built. O dwell in it, that it may dwell with thee at last. Till then, afford us so much wit that as the world serves us, we may serve thee, and both thy servants be. In friendship, first, I think if that agree which I intend, unto my friend's intended end, I would not use a friend as I use thee. If any touch my friend or his good name, it is my honor and my love to free his blasted fame from the least spot or thought of blame. I could not use a friend as I use thee. My friend may spit upon my curious flow. Would he have gold I lend it instantly, but let the poor and thou within them starve adore. I cannot use a friend as I use thee. When that my friend pretendeth to a place, I quit my interest and leave it free. But when thy grace use from my heart, I thee displace. Know what I use a friend as I use thee. Yet can a friend what thou hast done fulfill? O right in brass my God upon a tree his blood did spill, only to purchase my good will. Yet use I not my foes as I use thee. Life. I made a posey while the day ran by. Note, nose gay, return to text. Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie my life within this band. But time did beckon to the flowers, and they by noon most cunningly did steal away, and withered in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart. I took, without more thinking, in good part time's gentle admonition, who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, making my mind to smell my fatal day, yet sugaring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time you spent, fit while ye lived for smell or ornament, and after death for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief. Since if my scent be good, I care not if it be as short as yours. Submission. But that thou art my Wisdom, Lord, and both mine eyes have I, my mind would be extremely stirred for missing my design. Worry it not better to bestow some place and power on me, then should thy praises with me grow and share in my degree. But when I thus dispute and grieve, I do resume my fighting, and pilfering what I once did give, dis-seize thee of thy right. I'll know I, if thou shouldst me raise, that I should then raise thee. Perhaps great places and thy praise do not so well agree. Wherefore, and to my gift I stand, I will no more advise. Only do thou lend me a hand, since thou hast both mine eyes. Justice. Justice. I cannot skill these thy ways. Lord, thou dost make me, yet thou woundest me. Lord, thou dost wound me, yet thou dost relieve me. Lord, thou relieve us, yet I die by thee. Lord, thou dost kill me, yet thou dost reprieve me. But when I mark my life in praise, my justice me most fitly pays, for I do praise thee, yet I praise thee not. My prayers mean thee, yet my prayers stray. I would do well, yet sin the hand of God. My soul doth love thee, yet it loves delay. I cannot skill these my ways. Mortification. How soon doth man decay? When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets to swaddle infants, whose young breath scarce knows the way, those clouds are little winding sheets, which do consign and send them unto death. When boys first go to bed, they step into their voluntary graves. Sleep binds them fast, only their breath makes them not dead. Successive nights, like rolling waves, convey them quickly, who are bound for death. When youth is frank and free and calls for music, while his veins do swell, all day exchanging mirth and breath in company, that music summons to the knell which shall befriend him at the house of death. When man grows staid and wise, getting a house and home, for he may move within the circle of his breath, schooling his eyes, that dumb enclosure maketh love unto the coffin that attends his death. When age grows low and weak, marking his grave and thawing every year, till old and melt and drown his breath when he would speak, the chair or litter shows the beer, which shall convey him to the house of death. Man ere he is aware hath put together a solemnity and dressed his hearse, while he hath breath as yet to spare. He had Lord instruct us so to die, that all these dyings may be life in death. Miserie. Lord, let the angels praise thy name. Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing. Folly and sin play all his game. His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing. Man is but grass. He knows it. Fill the glass. How canst thou brook his foolishness? Why, he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee. Bid him but temper his excess, not he. He knows where he can better be as he will swear than to serve thee in fear. What strange pollutions doth he wed and make his own, as if none knew but he. No man shall beat into his head that thou within his curtains drawn canst see. They are cloth where never yet came moth. The best of men, turned but thy hand for one poor minute, stumble at a pin. They would not have their actions scanned. Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin, though it be small and measure not their fall. They quarrel thee, and would give over the bargain made to serve thee. But thy love holds them unto it, and doth cover their follies with the wings of thy mild dove. Not suffering those who would to be thy foes. My God, man, cannot praise thy name. Thou art all brightness, perfect purity. The sun holds down his head for shame, dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee. How shall infection presume on thy perfection? As dirty hands foul all they touch, and those things most, which are most pure and fine, so our clay hearts, even when we crouch to sing thy praises, make them less divine. Yet either this or none thy portion is. And cannot serve thee. Let him go and serve the swine. There, there is his delight. He doth not like this virtue. No, give him his dirt to wellow in all night. These preachers make his head to shoot an egg. O foolish man, where are thy eyes? How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares? Thou pulls the rug and wilt not rise. No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars. There let them shine. Thou must go sleep or die. The bird that sees a dainty bower made into the tree where she was want to sit, wonders and sings. But not his power who made the armor. This exceeds her wit. But man doth know the spring whence all things flow. And yet, as though he knew it not, his knowledge winks, and lets his humours rain. They make his life a constant blot, and all the blood of God to run in vain. O wretch, what verse can thy strange ways rehearse? Indeed, at first man was a treasure, a box of jewels, shop of rarities, a ring whose posey was my pleasure. He was a garden in a paradise. Glory and grace did crown his heart and face. But sin hath fooled him. Now he is a lump of flesh without a foot or wing to raise him to a glimpse of bliss. A sick, tossed vessel dashing on each thing, nay, his own shelf. My God, I mean myself. Jordan 2 When first my verse of heavenly joys made mention, such was their luster. Note the luster of the joys. Return to text. That it so excelled that I thought out quaint words and trim invention. My thoughts began to burnish, sprout and swell, curling with metaphors of plain intention, decking the sense as if it were to sell. Thousands of notions in my brain did run, offering this service if I were not sped. I often blotted what I had begun. This was not quick enough, and that was dead. Nothing could seem too rich to blow the sun, much less those joys which trample on his head. His flames do work and wind when they ascend, so did I weave myself into the sense. But while I bustled, I might hear a friend whisper, How wide is all this long pretence? There is in love a sweetness ready penned. Copy out only that and save expense. Conscience. Peace, Prattler, do not lower. Not a fair look but thou does call it foul, not a sweet dish but thou does call it sour. Music to thee doth howl. By listening to thy chatting fears, I have both lost mine eyes and ears. Prattler, no more I say. My thoughts must work. But like a noiseless sphere, harmonious peace must rock them all day. No room for Prattlers there. If thou persistest, I will tell thee that I have physic to expel thee, and the receipt shall be my saviour's blood. Whenever it is bored I do but taste it, straight it cleanse of me, and leaves thee not a word. No, not a tooth or nail to scratch, and of my actions, carp and catch. Yet if thou talkest still, besides my physic, no, there is some for thee, some wood and nails to make a stand, or bill for those that trouble me. The bloody cross of my dear lord is both my physic and my sword, the quip. The merry world did on a day with his train-bands, and mates agree to meet together where I lay, and all in sport to jeer at me. First beauty crept into a rose, which when I plucked not, sir, said she, tell me I pray, whose hands are those? But thou shalt answer, lord, for me. Then money came, and jinking still, What tune is this, poor man? said he. I heard in music you had skill. But thou shalt answer, lord, for me. Then came brave glory puffing by in silks that whistled. Who but he? He scarce allowed me have an eye, but thou shalt answer, lord, for me. Then came quick wit and conversation, and he would need to comfort me, and, to be short, make an oration. But thou shalt answer, lord, for me. Yet when the hour of thy design to answer these fine things shall come, speak not at large, say, I am thine. And then they had their answer home. End of section 5 of Selected Poems by George Herbert Recorded by Thomas Copeland Section 6 of Selected Poems by George Herbert This liberal arts recording is in the public domain Recorded by Thomas Copeland Love Joy As on a window late I cast mine high, I saw a vine drop grapes with jay and sea annealed on every bunch. One standing by asked what it meant. I, whom I'm ever loathed to spend my judgment, said it seemed to me to be the body and the letters both of joy and charity. Sir, you have not missed, the man replied. It figures Jesus Christ. Hope I gave to Hope a watch of mine, but he an anchor gave to me. Then an old prayer book I did present, and he an optic scent. With that I gave a vial full of tears, but he a few green ears. Ah, loiterer, I'll no more, no more I'll bring. I did expect a ring. Sins round. Sorry I am, my God. Sorry I am that my offences corset in a ring. My thoughts are working like a busy flame until their cockatrice they hatch and bring. And when they once have perfected their drafts, my words take fire from my inflamed thoughts. My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts, which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill. Note, etna, return to text. They vent the wares and pass them with their faults. And by their breathing ventilate the ill. But words suffice not, where all youed intentions, my hands do join to finish the inventions. My hands do join to finish the inventions, and so my sins ascend three stories high, as babble grew before there were dissensions. Yet ill deeds loiter not, for they supply new thoughts of sinning. Wherefore to my shame. Sorry I am, my God. Sorry I am. Love unknown. Dear friends, sit down. The tale is long and sad, and in my faintings I presume your love will more comply than hell. A lord I had, and half, of whom some grounds which may improve I hold for two lives, and both lives in me. To him I brought a dish of fruit one day, and in the middle placed my heart. But he, I sighed to say, looked on a servant who did know his eye better than you know me, or which is one that I myself. The servant, instantly quitting the fruit, seized on my heart alone, and threw it in a font, wherein did fall a stream of blood, which issued from the side of a great rock. I well remember all, and have good cause. There it was dipped and dyed, and washed and rung, the very ringing yet in force of tears. Your heart was foul, I fear. Indeed, it is true. I did and do commit many a fault more than my leaseful bear, yet still asked pardon, and was not denied. But you shall hear. After my heart was well and clean and fair, as I one even died, I sighed to tell, walked by myself abroad. I saw a large and spacious furnace flaming, and thereon a boiling cauldron round about whose verge was in great letter set, a fliction. The greatness showed the owner, so I went to fetch a sacrifice out of my fold, thinking with that which I did thus present to warm his love, which I did fear grew cold. But as my heart did tender it, the man who was to take it from me slipped his hand and threw my heart into the scalding ban, my heart that brought it. You understand? The offerer's heart. Your heart was hard, I fear. Indeed, it is true. I found a callous matter began to spread and to expatiate there, note spread abroad, return to text. But with a richer drug than scalding water, I bathed it often, even with holy blood, which at a board, while many drank their wine, a friend did steal into my cup for good, even taken inwardly and most divine to supple hardness. But at the length out of the cauldron getting, soon I fled unto my house, where to repair the strength which I had lost I hasted to my bed. But when I thought to sleep out all these faults, I sighed to speak. I found that some had stuffed the bed with thoughts, I would say thorns. Dear, could my heart not break, when with my pleasures even my rest was gone? Full well I understood who had been there, for I had given the key to none but one. It must be he. Your heart was dull, I fear. Indeed, a slack and sleepy state of mind did off possess me, so that when I prayed, though my lips went, my heart did stay behind. But all my scores were by another paid, who took the debt upon him. Truly, friend, for ought I hear, your master shows to you more favor than you want of. Mark the end. The font did only what was old renew. The cauldron suppled what was grown too hard. The thorns did quicken what was grown too dull. All did but strive to mend what you had marred. Wherefore be cheered and praise him to the full, each day, each hour, each moment of the week, who feign would have you be new, tender, quick. Note living, paradise. I bless thee, Lord, because I grow among thy trees which, in a row, to thee both fruit and order owe. What open force or hidden charm can blast my fruit or bring me harm, while the enclosure is thine arm? Enclose me still, for fear I start, be to me rather sharp and tart, than let me want thy hand in art. When thou dost greater judgment spare, and with thy knife but prune and pair, even fruitful trees more fruitful. Such sharpness shows the sweetest friend. Such cuttings rather heal than rent. And such beginnings touch their hand. The bag. A way to spare, my gracious Lord doth hear. The winds and waves assault my keel, he doth preserve it. He doth steer even when the boat seems most to reel. Storms are the triumph of his heart. Well may he close his eyes, but not his heart. Hast thou not heard that my Lord Jesus died? Then let me tell you a strange story. The God of power, as he did ride in his majestic robes of glory, resolved to light. And so one day he did descend, undressing all the way. The stars, his tire of light and rings obtained, the cloud, his bow, the fire, his spear, the sky, his azure mantle gained. And when they asked what he would wear, he smiled and said as he did go, he had new clothes the making here below. When he was come, as travelers are want, he did repair into an inn. Both then and after, many a brunt he did endure to cancel sin. And having given the rest before, here he gave up his life to pay our score. But as he was returning, there came one that ran upon him with a spear. He who came hither, all alone, bringing no man or arms nor fear, received the blow upon his side. And straight he turned, and to his brethren cried, If he have anything to send, or write, I have no bag. But here is room, under my father's hands, and sight, believe me, it shall safely come. That I shall mind what you impart, look, you may put it very near my heart. Or if hereafter any of my friends will use me in this kind, the door shall still be open. What he sends, I will present. And somewhat more, not to his hurt. Size will convey anything to me. Hark, despair away. End of section six of Selected Poems by George Herbert. Recording by Thomas Copeland. Section seven of Selected Poems by George Herbert. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Thomas Copeland. The calmer. I struck the board, and cried, No more I will abroad. What shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free. Free is the road, looses the wind, as large as storm. Shall I be still in sute? Have I no harvest but a thorn to let me blood and not restore what I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine before my sighs did dry it. There was corn before my tears did drown it. Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it? No flowers? No garlands gay? All blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart, but there is fruit, and thou hast hands. Recover all thy sideblown age on double pleasures. Leave thy co-dispute of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage, thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made, And made to thee good cable, To enforce and draw and be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away, take heed, I will abroad! Call in thy death's head there, tie up thy fears. He that for bears to suit and serve his need, Deserves his load. That as I raved and grew more fierce and wild at every word, He thought I heard one calling, Child. And I replied, My lord, assurance. Oh spiteful, bitter thought, bitterly spiteful thought, Couldst thou invent so high a torture? Is such poison bought? Doubtless, but in the way of punishment. When wit contrives to meet with thee, No such rank poison can there be. Thou saidst even now, That all was not so fair as I can see, Betwixt my God and me, That I allow and coin large hopes, But that I was deceived, Either the league was broke or near it, And that I had great cause to fear it. And what to this? What more could poison if it had a tongue express? What is thy aim? Wouldst thou unlock the door to cold despairs And gnawing pensiveness? Wouldst thou raise devils? I see, I know, I writ thy purpose long ago, But I will to my father who heard thee say it. Oh, most gracious Lord, If all the hope and comfort that I gather were from myself, I have not half a word, Not half a letter to oppose what is objected by my foes. But thou art my desert, And in this league which now my foes invade, Thou art not only to perform thy part, But also mine, As when the league was made, Thou didst once thyself indict, And hold my hand while I did write. Wherefore, if thou canst fail, Then can thy truth and I. But while rocks stand and rivers stir, Thou canst not shrink or quail. Yea, when both rocks and all things shall disband, Then shall thou be my rock and tower, And make their ruin praise thy power. Now foolish thought, Go on, spin out thy thread, And make there of a coat to hide thy shame. For thou hast cast a bone Which bounds on thee, And will not down thy throat. What for itself love once began, Now love and truth will end in man, The pulley. When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessing standing by, Let us, said he, pour on him all we can, Let the world's riches which dispersed lie Contract into a span. So strength first made away, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure. When almost all was out, God made us stay, perceiving that alone Of all his treasure rest in the bottom lay. For if I should, said he, Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in nature, Not the God of nature, So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness. Let him be rich and weary, That at least if goodness lead him not, Yet weariness may toss him to my breast. Grief. Oh, who will give me tears? Come, all ye springs dwell in my head and eyes, Come, clouds and rain. My grief hath need of all the watery things That nature hath produced. Let every vein suck up a river to supply mine eyes, My weary, weeping eyes too dry for me, Unless they get new conduits, new supplies, To bear them out and with my state agree. What a too shallow force, Too little spouts of a less world, The greater is but small, A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts, Which want provision in the midst of all. Versus, ye are too fine a thing, Too wise for my rough sorrows, Cease the dumb and mute, Give up your feet and running to my eyes, And keep your measures for some lovers endued, Whose grief allows him music and rhyme, For mine excludes both measure, tune, and time. Alas, my God, the flower, How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean are thy returns, Even as the flowers in spring, To which, besides their own demean, The late past frosts tribute a pleasure-bring, Grief melts away like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shriveled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone quite underground, As flowers depart to see their mother root, When they have blown, where they, together, All the hard weather, dead to the world, Keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell, And up to heaven in an hour, Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss this, O that is, Thy word is all, if you could spell, O that I once past changing were, Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither. Many a spring I shoot up fair, offering at heaven, Growing and groaning thither, Lord, if my flower want a spring shower, My sins and I joining together. But while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, Thy anger comes and I decline. What frost to that? What pole is not the zone where all things burn When thou dost turn, and the least frown of thine is shown? And now, in age, I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write. I once more smell the dew and rain and relish versing. O my only light, it cannot be that I am he, When whom thy tempests fell all night. These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see, we are but flowers that glide, Which, when we once confined and prove, Thou hast to garden for us where to bide, Who would be more, swelling through store, Forfeit the paradise by their pride. Dotage, false, glowsing pleasures, Casks of happiness, foolish nightfires, Women's and children's wishes, Chases in aris, gilded emptiness, Shadows well-mounted, dreams in a career, Embroidered lies, nothing between two dishes. These are the pleasures here. True earnest sorrows, rooted miseries, Anguish ingrained, vexations ripe and blown, Sure-footed griefs, solid calamities, Plain demonstrations evident and clear, Fetching their proofs even from the very bone. These are the sorrows here. But, oh, the folly of distracted men, Who griefs in earnest joys in just pursuit, Referring, like brute beasts, a lonesome den Before court, even that above so clear, Where are no sorrows but delights more True than miseries are ear, the sun. Let foreign nations of their language boast What fine variety each tongue affords. I like our language as our men and coasts, Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words. How meatly do we give one only name To parents' issue and the sun's bright star. A sun is light and fruit, a fruitful flame, Chasing the father's dim-ness, carried far From the first man in the east to fresh A new western discoveries of posterity. So in one word our Lord's humility We turn upon him in a sense most true, For what Christ once in humbleness began, We hymn in glory call the son of man. Note, spelled S-O-N-N-E, but representing S-U-N. A true hymn. My joy, my life, my crown. My heart was meaning all the day some what It fame would say, and still it runneth Muttering up and down with only this, My life, my joy, my crown. Yet slight not these few words. If truly said, they may take part Among the best in art. The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords Is when the soul unto the lines accords. He who craves all the mind and all the soul And strength and time, if the words only rhyme, Justly complains that somewhat is behind To make his verse or write a hymn in kind. Whereas if the heart be moved, Although the verse be somewhat scanned, God doth supply the one, As when the art says sighing to be approved. Oh, could I love and stop? God righteth. Loved. Bitter sweet. Ah, my dear angry lord, Since thou dost love yet strike, Cast down, yet help afford, Sure I will do the like. I will complain, yet praise. I will bewail, approve. And all my sour sweet days I will lament. And love. The twenty-third psalm. The God of love, my shepherd, is, And he that doth me feed. While he is mine and I am his, What can I want or need? He leads me to the tender grass Where I both feed and rest. Then to the streams that gently pass. In both I have the best. Or if I stray, he doth convert And bring my mind in frame. And all this not for my desert, But for his holy name. Yea, in death's shady black abode, Well may I walk, not fear, For thou art with me, And thy rod to guide, thy staff to bear. Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine Even in my enemy's sight. By head with oil, my cup with wine Runs over day and night. Surely thy sweet and wondrous love Shall measure all my days. And as it never shall remove, So neither shall my praise. Why kept she not her tears for her own faults, and not his feet? Though we could dive in tears like seas, Our sins are piled deeper than they In words and works and thoughts. Dear soul, she knew who did vouchsafe And dain to bear her filth, And that her sins did dash even God himself. Wherefore she was not loath, As she had brought her with disdain, So to bring in wherewith to wash. And yet in washing one she washeth both. The four runners. The harbingers are calm. See, see their mark. White is their color, and behold my head. But must they have my brain, Must they dis-spark those sparkling notions Which therein were bred? Must dullness turn me to a quad? Yet they have left me, thou art still my God. Good men ye be to leave me my best room, Even all my heart, and what is lodged there? I pass not high, no to carry not. Return to text. What have the rest become? So thou art still my God, be out of fear. He will be pleased with that ditty, And if I please him, I write fine and witty. Farewell, sweet phrases, lovely metaphors. But will ye leave me thus? When ye before of stews and brothels On the new the doors, Then did I wash you with my tears, And more brought you to church, Well dressed and clad. My God, must have my best, even all I had. Lovely enchanting language, sugarcane, Honey of roses, whither wilt thou fly? Thoth some fond lover tisely to thy bane, And wilt thou leave the church and love a sty? Fie, thou wilt soil thy broidered coat, And hurt thyself and him that sings the note. Red foolish lovers, if they will love Dung with canvas, not with arrows, Cloth their shame, let folly speak In her own native tongue. True beauty dwells on high, ours is aflame, But borrowed thenst to lightest thither. Beauty and beauty's word should go together. Yet if you go, I pass not, take your way. Well, thou art still my God, Is all the deep, perhaps, For the more embellishment can say. Go, birds of spring, Let winter have his fee, Let a bleak paleness chop the door, So all within be lively than before. Discipline, throw away thy wrath, Throw away thy wrath, oh my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart's desire unto thine is bent, I aspire to a full consent, Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book and thy book alone, Though I fail I weep, Though I halt in pace, yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove, Love will do the deed, For with love stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift afoot, Love's a man of war, And can shoot and can hit from far. Who can scape his bow, That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, needs must work on me? Throw away thy wrath, Though men frailt his hath thou at God, Throw away thy wrath, the elixir. Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do in anything to do it as for thee. Not rudely as a beast to run into an action, But still to make thee prepossessed, And give it his perfection. A man that looks on glass, On it may stay his eye, Or if he pleases, through it pass, And then the heaviness by, All may of thee partake. Nothing can be so mean Which with his tincture for thy sake Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this claws makes drudgery divine, Who sweeps a room as for thy laws, Makes that and action fine. This is the famous stone that turneth all to gold, For that which God doth touch and own, Cannot for less be told. No, told means counted. A wreath, A wreathed garland of deserved praise, A praise deserved unto thee I give, I give to thee who knowest all my ways, My crooked winding ways, Wherein I live, wherein I die not live, For life is straight, straight as a line, And ever tends to thee, To thee who art more far above deceit, Than deceit seems above simplicity. Give me simplicity that I may live, So live and like that I may know thy ways, Know them and practice them, Then shall I give for this poor wreath, Give thee a crown of praise, Death, death, Thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, Nothing but bones, the sad effect of sadder groans, My mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. For we considered thee as at some six or ten years hence, After the loss of life and sense, Flesh being turned to dust and bones to sticks. We looked on this side of thee, shooting short, Where we did find the shells of fledged souls left behind, Dry dust with sheds no tears, but may extort. But since our Saviour's death did put some blood into thy face, Thou art grown fair and full of grace, Much in request, much sought for, as a good, For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at those days when souls shall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. Therefore we can go die asleep, And trust half that we have unto an honest faithful grave, Making our pillows either down or dust. Doomsday. Come away, make no delay, Summon all the dust to rise till it stir and rub the eyes, While this member jogs the other, each one whispering, Live you, robber. Come away, make this the day, Dust, alas, no music feels but thy trumpet. Then it kneels as peculiar notes and strings, Cure tarantulas raging pains. Come away, oh, make no stay, Let the graves make their confession. Lest at length they plead possession, Flesh as stubbornness may have read that lesson to the grave. Come away, thy flock doth stray, Sum to the winds their bodies lend, And in them may drown a friend. Some, in nor some vapours, grow to a plague and public woe. Come away, help our decay. Man is out of order hurled, Parceled out to all the world. Lord, thy brook and consult raise, And the music shall be praise judgment. Almighty judge, how shall poor wretches brook thy dreadful look, Able a heart of iron to appall, When thou shalt call for every man's peculiar book? What others mean to do, I know not well. Yet I here tell that some will turn late to some leaves Therein so void of sin that they in merit shall excel. But I resolve, when thou shalt call for mine, That to decline and thrust a testament into thy hand. Let that be scanned, there thou shalt find my faults or thine. Heaven, oh, who will show me those delights on high? I, thou echo, thou art mortal, all men know. No. Worth thou not born among the trees and leaves? Leaves. And are there any leaves that still abide? Bide. What leaves are they? Impart the matter wholly. Holy. Are holy leaves the echo then of bliss? Yes. Then tell me, what is that supreme delight? Light. Light to the mind. What shall the will enjoy? Joy. But are there cares and business with the pleasure? Leisure. Light, joy, and leisure. But shall they perceiver? Ever. Love. Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back, guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed love, observing me gross slack from my first entrance in, drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning if I lacked anything. I guess I answered worthy to be here. Love said, you shall be he. I, the unkind, ungrateful. Ah, my dear, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth, Lord, but I have marred them. Let my shame go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says love, who bore the blame? My dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says love, and taste my meat. So I did sit and eat. End of Section 8, recording by Thomas Copeland. End of Selected Poems by George Herbert.