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George Herbert - The Search
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Whither, O, whither art thou fled,
                     My Lord, my Love?
My searches are my daily bread;
                     Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th` earth, mine eies the skie:
                     And yet the sphere
And centre both to me denie
                     That thou art there.

Yet can I mark how herbs below
                     Grow green and gay;
As if to meet thee they did know,
                     While I decay.

Yet can I mark how starres above
                     Simper and shine,
As having keyes unto thy love,
                     While poore I pine.

I sent a sigh to seek thee out,
                     Deep drawn in pain,
Wing`d like an arrow: but my scout
                     Returns in vain.

I tun`d another (having store)
                     Into a grone,
Because the search was dumbe before:
                     But all was one.

Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold
                     Which favour winnes,
And keeps thee present, leaving th` old
                     Unto their sinnes?

Where is my God? what hidden place
                     Conceals thee still?
What covert dare eclipse thy face?
                     Is it thy will?

O let not that of any thing:
                     Let rather brasse,
Or steel, or mountains be thy ring,
                     And I will passe.

Thy will such an intrenching is,
                     As passeth thought:
To it all strength, all subtilties
                     Are things of nought.

Thy will such a strange distance is,
                     As that to it
East and West touch, the poles do kisse,
                     And parallels meet.

Since then my grief must be as large
                     As is thy space,
Thy distance from me; see my charge,
                     Lord, see my case.

O take these barres, these lengths away:
                     Turn, and restore me:
Be not Almightie, let me say,
                     Against, but for me.

When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare;
                     What edge so keen,
What point so piercing can appeare
                     To come between?

For as thy absence doth excell
                     All distance known:
So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell,
                     Making two one.
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