Henry Vaughan (1621 - 23 April 1695 / Brecknockshire, Wales)

COME, come ! what do I here ?
Since he is gone
Each day is grown a dozen year
And each hour, one ;
Come, come !
Cut off the sum :
By these soil'd tears !
Which only Thou
Know'st to be true,
Days are my fears.
2.

There's not a wind can stir,
Or beam pass by,
But straight I think, though far,
Thy hand is nigh.
Come, come !
Strike these lips dumb :
This restless breath,
That soils Thy name,
Will ne'er be tame
Until in death.
3.

Perhaps some think a tomb
No house of store,
But a dark and seal'd up womb,
Which ne'er breeds more.
Come, come !
Such thoughts benumb :
But I would be
With him I weep
Abed, and sleep,
To wake in Thee.