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Henry Vaughan - The Morning-WatcHenry Vaughan - The Morning-Watc
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.   O joys! infinite sweetness! with what flow`rs     And shoots of glory my soul breaks and buds!             All the long hours             Of night, and rest,             Through the still shrouds             Of sleep, and clouds,         This dew fell on my breast;         Oh, how it bloods     And spirits all my earth! Hark! In what rings    And hymning circulations the quick world            Awakes and sings;            The rising winds            And falling springs,            Birds, beasts, all things        Adore him in their kinds.            Thus all is hurl`d    In sacred hymns and order, the great chime    And symphony of nature. Prayer is            The world in tune,            A spirit voice,            And vocal joys        Whose echo is heav`n`s bliss.            O let me climb    When I lie down! The pious soul by night    Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said            To shed their light            Under some cloud,            Yet are above,            And shine and move        Beyond that misty shroud.            So in my bed,    That curtain`d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide    My lamp and life, both shall in thee abide.
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