Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

O JOYOUS! infinite sweetness! with what flowers

And shoots of glory, my soul breaks and buds!

All the long hours

Of night and rest,

Through the still shrouds

Of sleep, and clouds,

This dew fell on my breast;

O how it bloods,

And spirits all my earth! hark! in what rings,

And hymning circulations the quick world

Awakes, and sings!

The rising winds,

And falling springs,

Birds, beasts, all things

Adore Him in their kinds.

Thus all is hurl’d

In sacred hymns and order; the great chime

And symphony of Nature. Prayer is

The world in tune,

A spirit-voice,

And vocal joys,

Whose echo is heaven’s bliss.

O let me climb

When I lie down! The pious soul by night

Is like a clouded star, whose beams, though said

To shed their light

Under some cloud,

Yet are above,

And shine and move

Beyond that misty shroud.

So in my bed,

That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide

My lamp and life, both shall in Thee abide.