The Call - Poem by Henry Vaughan
COME, my heart ! come, my head,
In sighs, and tears !
'Tis now, since you have lain thus dead,
Some twenty years ;
Some pity take
Upon yourselves !
Who never wake to groan, nor weep,
Shall be sentenc'd for their sleep.
Do but see your sad estate,
How many sands
Have left us, while we careless sate
With folded hands ;
What stock of nights,
Of days, and years
In silent flights
Stole by our ears ;
How ill have we ourselves bestow'd,
Whose suns are all set in a cloud !
Yet come, and let's peruse them all,
And as we pass,
What sins on every minute fall
Score on the glass ;
Then weigh, and rate
Their heavy state,
The glass with tears you fill ;
That done, we shall be safe and good :
Those beasts were clean that chew'd the cud.
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