Poetry Archives

O fly, my Soul! What hangs upon
        Thy drooping wings,
        And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things?

The Sun is now i’ the east: each shade
        As he doth rise
        Is shorter made,
That earth may lessen to our eyes.

O be not careless then and play
        Until the Star of Peace
Hide all his beams in dark recess!
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase.