Some Favourite Poems

No more shall walls, no more shall walls confine
That glorious soul which in my flesh doth shine:
No more shall walls of clay or mud
Nor ceilings made of wood,
Nor crystal windows, bound my sight,
But rather shall admit delight.
The skies that seem to bound
My joys and treasures,
Of more endearing pleasures
Themselves become a ground:
While from the centre to the utmost sphere
My goods are multiplied everywhere.

The Deity, the Deity to me
Doth all things give, and make me clearly see
The moon and stars, the air and sun
Into my chamber come:
The seas and rivers hither flow,
Yea, here the trees of Eden grow,
The fowls and fishes stand,
Kings and their thrones,
As 'twere, at my command;
God's wealth, His holy ones,
The ages too, and angels all conspire:
While I, that I the centre am, admire.

No more, no more shall clouds eclipse my treasures,
Nor viler shades obscure my highest pleasures;
No more shall earthen husks confine
My blessings which do shine
Within the skies, or else above:
Both worlds one Heaven made by love,
In common happy I
With angels walk
And there my joys espy;
With God Himself I talk;
Wondering with ravishment all things to see
Such real joys, so truly mine, to be.

No more shall trunks and dishes be my store,
Nor ropes of pearl, nor chains of golden ore;
As if such beings yet were not,
They all shall be forgot.
No such in Eden did appear,
No such in Heaven: Heaven here
Would be, were those remov'd;
The sons of men
Live in Jerusalem,
Had they not baubles lov'd.
These clouds dispers'd, the heavens clear I see,
Wealth new invented, mine shall never be.

Transcendent objects doth my God provide,
In such convenient order all contriv'd,
That all things in their proper place
My soul doth best embrace,
Extends its arms beyond the seas,
Above the heavens itself can please,
With God enthron'd may reign:
Like sprightly streams
My thoughts on things remain;
Or else like vital beams
They reach to, shine on, quicken things, and make
Them truly useful; while I all partake.

For me the world created was by Love;
For me the skies, the seas, the sun, do move;
The earth for me doth stable stand;
For me each fruitful land,
For me the very angels God made His
And my companions in bliss:
His laws command all men
That they love me,
Under a penalty
Severe, in case they miss:
His laws require His creatures all to praise
His name, and when they do't be most my joys.

Thomas Traherne

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 clouts are little winding sheets,
Which do consigne and send them unto death.

When boyes go first to bed,
They step into their voluntarie graves,
Sleep bindes them fast; onely 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 musick, while his veins do swell,
All day exchanging mirth and breath
In companie;
That musick summons to the knell,
Which shall befriend him at the houre of death.

When man grows staid and wise,
Getting a house and home, where he may move
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes;
That dumbe inclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,
Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry yeare,
Till all do melt, and drown his breath
When he would speak;
A chair or litter shows the biere,
Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,
Hath put together a solemnitie,
And drest his herse, while he has breath
As yet to spare:
Yet Lord, instruct us so to die,
That all these dyings may be life in death.

George Herbert

O nectar! O delicious stream!
O ravishing and only pleasure! Where
Shall such another theme
Inspire my tongue with joys, or please mine ear!
Abridgement of delights!
And queen of sights!
O mine of rarities! O kingdom wide!
O more! O cause of all! O glorious bride!
O God! O bride of God! O king!
O soul and crown of everything!

Did not I covet to behold
Some endless monarch, that did always live
In palaces of gold,
Willing all kingdoms, realms and crowns to give
Unto my soul! Whose love
A spring might prove
Of endless glories, honours, friendships, pleasures,
Joys, praises, beauties, and celestial treasures!
Lo, now I see there's such a King,
The fountainhead of everything!

Did my ambition ever dream
Of such a Lord, of such a love! Did I
Expect so sweet a stream
As this at any time! Could any eye
Believe it? Why, all power
Is used here
Joys down from Heaven on my head to shower,
And Jove beyond the fiction doth appear
Once more in golden rain to come
To Danae's pleasing fruitful womb.

His Ganymede! His life! His joy!
Or He comes down to me, or takes me up
That I might be his boy,
And fill, and taste, and give, and drink the cup.
But these (tho great) are all
Too short and small,
Too weak and feeble pictures to express
The true mysterious depths of blessedness.
I am His image, and His friend.
His son, bride, glory, temple, end.

Thomas Traherne

I would thou wert not fair, or I were wise;
I would thou hadst no face, or I no eyes;
I would thou wert not wise, or I not fond;
Or thou not free, or I not so in bond.

But thou art fair, and I cannot be wise;
Thy sun-like face hath blinded both mine eyes;
Thou canst not but be wise, nor I but fond;
Nor thou but free, nor I but still in bond.

Yet am I wise to think that thou art fair;
Mine eyes their pureness in thy face repair;
Nor am I fond, that do thy wisdom see;
Nor yet in bond, because that thou art free.

Then in thy beauty only make me wise;
And in thy face the Graces guide mine eyes;
And in thy wisdom only see me fond;
And in thy freedom keep me still in bond.

So shalt thou still be fair, and I be wise;
Thy face shine still upon my clearèd eyes;
Thy wisdom only see how I am fond;
Thy freedom only keep me still in bond.

So would I thou wert fair, and I were wise;
So would thou hadst thy face, and I mine eyes;
So would I thou wert wise, and I were fond,
And thou wert free and I were still in bond.

Nicholas Breton

Death

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones;
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

For we consider'd thee as at some six
Or ten yeares hence,
After the loss of life and sense,
Flesh being turn'd to dust, and bones to sticks.

We lookt on this side of thee, shooting short;
Where we did finde
The shells of fledge souls left behinde,
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But since our Saviours death did put some bloud
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 dooms-day;
When souls shall wear their new aray,
And all thy bones with beautie shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
Half that we have
Unto an honest faithfull grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.

George Herbert

Aire and Angels

Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angells affect us oft, and worship'd bee;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soule, whose child love is,
Takes limmes of flesh, and else could nothing doe,
More subtile than the parent is,
Love must not be, but take a body too,
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love aske, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fixe it selfe in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,
And so more steddily to have gone,
With wares which would sinke admiration,
I saw, I had loves pinnace overfraught,
Ev'ry thy haire for love to worke upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;
Then as an Angell, face, and wings
Of aire, not pure as it, yet pure doth weare,
So thy love may be my loves spheare;
Just such disparitie
As is twixt Aire and Angels puritie,
'Twixt womens love, and mens will ever bee.

John Donne

Composed upon Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies.
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy shall Wittenberg be sacked,
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest.
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening's air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele,
More lovely than the Monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azure arms,
And none but thou shalt be my paramour.

From 'Doctor Faustus' by Christopher Marlowe

The Sunne Rising

Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both the'India's of spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

She'is all States, and all Princes,I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy'as wee,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the worlde, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

John Donne