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Henry Vaughan - The Morning-Watc
Work rating: Medium

.   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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