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Quickness

False life, a foil and no more, when
Wilt thou be gone?
Thou foul deception of all men
That would not have the true come on.
 
Thou art a moon—like toil, a blind
Self—posing state,
A dark contest of waves and wind,
A mere tempestuous debate.
 
Life is a fixed, discerning light,
A knowing joy;
No chance or fit, but ever bright
And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.
 
'Tis such a blissful thing that still
Doth vivify
And shine and smile and hath the skill
To please without eternity.
 
Thou art a toilsome mole, or less;
A moving mist;
But life is what none can express:
A quickness which my God hath kissed.
Autres oeuvres par Henry Vaughan ...



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