Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HOME, by GEORGE HERBERT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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First Line: Come, lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick
Last Line: Or take me up to thee!
Subject(s): Heaven; Paradise


COME, Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
While thou dost ever, ever stay:
Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,
My spirit gaspeth night and day.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

How canst thou stay, considering the pace
The bloud did make, which thou didst waste?
When I behold it trickling down thy face,
I never saw thing make such haste.
O show thyself, &c.

When man was lost, thy pitie lookt about,
To see what help in th' earth or skie:
But there was none; at least no help without:
The help did in thy bosom lie.
O show thyself, &c.

There lay thy Sonne. And must he leave that nest,
That hive of sweetnesse, to remove
Thraldome from those who would not at a feast
Leave one poore apple for thy love?
O show thyself, &c.

He did, he came: O my Redeemer deare,
After all this canst thou be strange?
So many yeares baptiz'd, and not appeare;
As if thy love could fail or change?
O show thyself, &c.

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me, --
This world of wo? Hence, all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.
O show thyself, &c.

What is this weary world, this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast?
What is this woman-kinde, which I can wink
Into a blacknesse and distaste?
O show thyself, &c.

With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day
I blasted all the joyes about me;
And, scouling on them as they pin'd away,
Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show thyself, &c.

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
Which way so-e're I look, I see.
Some may dream merrily; but, when they wake,
They dresse themselves, and come to thee.
O show thyself, &c.

We talk of harvests; there are no such things,
But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which brings
The last and lov'd, though dreadfull day.
O show thyself, &c.

Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie!
That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinion'd with mortalitie,
As an intangled, hamper'd thing.
O show thyself, &c.

What have I left, that I should stay and grone?
The most of me to heav'n is fled:
My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone,
And for their old acquaintance plead.
O show thyself, &c.

Come, dearest Lord, passe not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joynts do pray:
And ev'n my verse, when by the ryme and reason
The word is, Stay, says ever, Come.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!





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