THE WEEPER
by: Richard Crashaw (1613?-1649)
- AIL, sister
springs,
- Parents of silver-footed rills!
- Ever bubbling things,
- Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
- Still spending, never spent; I mean
- Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
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- Heavens thy fair eyes be;
- Heavens of ever-falling stars;
- 'Tis seed-time still with thee,
- And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares
- Promise the earth to countershine
- Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.
-
- Every morn from hence
- A brisk cherub something sips
- Whose soft influence
- Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
- Then to his music: and his song
- Tastes of this breakfast all day long.
-
- When some new bright guest
- Takes up among the stars a room,
- And Heaven will make a feast,
- Angels with their bottles come,
- And draw from these full eyes of thine
- Their Master's water, their own wine.
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- The dew no more will weep
- The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
- The dew no more will sleep
- Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
- Much rather would it tremble here,
- And leave them both to be thy tear.
-
- When sorrow would be seen
- In her brightest majesty,
- --For she is a Queen--
- Then is she drest by none but thee:
- Then and only then she wears
- Her riches pearls--I mean thy tears.
-
- Not in the evening's eyes,
- When they red with weeping are
- For the Sun that dies,
- Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
- Nowhere but here did ever meet
- Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
-
- Does the night arise?
- Still thy tears do fall and fall.
- Does night lose her eyes?
- Still the fountain weeps for all.
- Let day and night do what they will,
- Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
-
- Not So long she lived
- Will thy tomb report of thee;
- But So long she grieved:
- Thus must we date thy memory.
- Others by days, by months, by years,
- Measure their ages, thou by tears.
-
- Say, ye bright brothers,
- The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
- Your fruitful mothers,
- What make you here? What hopes can 'tice
- You to be born? What cause can borrow
- You from those nests of noble sorrow?
-
- Whither away so fast
- For sure the sordid earth
- Your sweetness cannot taste,
- Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
- Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
- Why you trip so fast away?
-
- We go not to seek
- The darlings of Aurora's bed,
- The rose's modest cheek,
- Nor the violet's humble head.
- No such thing: we go to meet
- A worthier object -- our Lord's feet.
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POEMS BY RICHARD CRASHAW |
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