Poetry Archives

1436

Than Heaven more remote,
For Heaven is the root,
But these the flitted seed.
More flown indeed
Than ones that never were,
Or those that hide, and are.

What madness, by their side,
A vision to provide
Of future days
They cannot praise.

My soul, to find them, come,
They cannot call, they’re dumb,
Nor prove, nor woo,
But that they have abode
Is absolute as God,
And instant, too.