Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

O LORD in me there lieth nought

But to thy search revealèd lies;

For when I sit

Thou markest it;

Nor less thou notest when I rise:

Yea, closest closet of my thought

Hath open windows to thine eyes.

Thou walkest with me when I walk;

When to my bed for rest I go,

I find thee there,

And everywhere;

Not youngest thought in me doth grow,

No, not one word I cast to talk

But, yet unuttered, thou dost know.

If forth I march, thou goest before;

If back I turn, thou com’st behind;

So forth nor back

Thy guard I lack;

Nay, on me too thy hand I find.

Well I thy wisdom may adore,

But never reach with earthly mind.

To shun thy notice, leave thine eye,

O whither might I take my way?

To starry sphere?

Thy throne is there:

To dead men’s undelightsome stay?

There is thy walk, and there to lie

Unknown, in vain should I assay.

O sun, whom light nor flight can match!

Suppose thy lightful flightful wings

Thou lend to me,

And I could flee

As far as thee the evening brings:

Even led to west he would me catch,

Nor should I lurk with western things.

Do thou thy best, O secret night!

In sable veil to cover me:

Thy sable veil

Shall vainly fail:

With day unmasked my night shall be,

For night is day, and darkness light,

O Father of all lights, to thee.