Henry Vaughan Quotes

I saw Eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright.

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came, return.

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

As great a store Have we of books as bees of herbs or more.

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!

They are all gone into the world of light, and I alone sit lingering here.

Early, as well as late, Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers

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

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.

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.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep. So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted dreams, And into glory peep.

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

Affliction is a mother, Whose painful throes yield many sons, Each fairer than the other.

Prayer is The world in tune, A spirit-voyce, And vocall joyes, Whose Eccho is heaven's blisse.

As men are killed by fighting, the truth is lost in disputing.

Dear Night! this world's defeat; The stop to busy fools; care's check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ's progress, and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven cloth chime.

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

Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just.

Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God ordered motion, but ordained no rest.

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.

Holy writing must strive (by all means) for perfection and true holiness, that a door may be opened to him in heaven.

Should poor souls fear a shade or night, Who came sure from a sea of light? Or since those drops are all sent back So sure to thee, that none doth lack, Why should frail flesh doubt any more That what God takes, He'll not restore?

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss; Heaven once a week; The next world's gladness prepossest in this; A day to seek; Eternity in time; the steps by which We climb above all ages: lamps that light Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich And full redemption of the whole week's flight.

So stick up ivy and the bays, and then restore the heathen ways, green will remind you of the Spring, though this great day denies the thing, and mortifies the earth, and all, but your wild revels, and loose hall.