George Herbert

Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

O who will give me tears? Come, all ye springs,
Dwell in my head and eyes; come, clouds
and rain;
My grief hath need of all the watery things
That nature hath produced: let every vein
Suck up a river to supply mine eyes,
My weary weeping eyes, too dry for me,
Unless they get new conduits, new supplies,
To bear them out, and with my state agree.

But I am lost in flesh, whose sugared lies,
Still mock me and grow bold:
Sure thou didst put a mind there, if I could
Find where it lies.

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me, With faith, with hope, with charity; That I may run, rise, rest with thee.

One sword keeps another in the sheath.

Lord restore thine image, hear my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan,
Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

Thou art my loveliness, my life, my light, Beauty alone to me.

All worldly joys go less
To the one joy of doing kindnesses.

He makes flat war with God, and doth defy With his poor clod of earth the spacious sky.

Holiness on the head, Light and perfections on the breast, Harmonious bells below, raising the dead To lead them unto life and rest. 5 Thus are true Aarons dressed. Profaneness in my head, Defects and darkness in my breast, A noise of passions ringing me for dead Unto a place where is no rest. 10 Poor priest thus am I dressed. Only another head I have, another heart and breast, Another music, making live not dead, Without whom I could have no rest: 15 In him I am well dressed. Christ is my only head, My alone only heart and breast, My only music, striking me ev’n dead; That to the old man I may rest, 20 And be in him new dressed. So holy in my head, Perfect and light in my dear breast, My doctrine tuned by Christ (who is not dead, But lives in me while I do rest), 25 Come people; Aaron’s dressed.

The market is the best garden.

By all means use sometimes to be alone.
Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear.
Dare to look in thy chest; for ’tis thine own:
And tumble up and down what thou find’st there.
Who cannot rest till he good fellows find,
He breaks up house, turns out of doors his mind.

In conversation boldness now bears sway. But know, that nothing can so foolish be, As empty boldness: therefore first assay To stuff thy mind with solid bravery;

The God of love my shepherd is, And he that doth me feed: While he is mine, and I am his, What can I want or need?

He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass.