I played with fire, did counsel spurn, Made life my common stake But never thought that fire would burn, O that a soul could ache.

My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars Where stands a wingèd sentry All skillful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace is crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files.

The skin and shell of things Though fair are not Thy wish nor prayer but got My meer despair of wings.

Mornings are mysteries the first world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud Shroud in their births.

Man hath still either toys or care: But hath no root, nor to one place is tied, but ever restless and irregular, about this earth doth run and ride. He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where He says it is so far, that he has quite forgot how to go there.

A ward, and still in bonds, one day I stole abroad It was high spring, and all the way Primrosed and hung with shade Yet was it frost within, And surly winds Blasted my infant buds, and sin Like clouds eclipsed my mind.

There is in God - some say - A deep, but dazzling darkness as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that Night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim!

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries! which he Must live that would God's face see Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer shou'd Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours 'Twixt heaven and us. The manna was not good After sun-rising far day sullies flowres. Rise to prevent the sun sleep doth sin glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut.

For each inclosed spirit is a star Enlightening his own little sphere

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the sun. Give him thy first thoughts then so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep.

Some syllables are swords.

Death, and darkness get you packing, Nothing now to man is lacking, All your triumphs now are ended, And what Adam marred, is mended.

The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and, all the way Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just! Shining nowhere but in the dark What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!