Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WHITE SUNDAY, by HENRY VAUGHAN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Welcome white day! A thousand suns Last Line: Dissolve into the common dross! Alternate Author Name(s): Silurist | ||||||||
Welcome white day! a thousand suns, Though seen at once, were black to thee; For after their light, darkness comes, But thine shines to eternity. Those flames which on the Apostles rushed At this great feast, and in a tire Of cloven tongues their heads all brushed, And crowned them with prophetic fire: Can these new lights be like to those, These lights of Serpents like the Dove? Thou hadst no gall, ev'n for thy foes, And thy two wings were grief and love. Though then some boast that fire each day, And on Christ's coat pin all their shreds; Not sparing openly to say, His candle shines upon their heads: Yet while some rays of that great light Shine here below within thy Book, They never shall so blind my sight But I will know which way to look. For though thou dost that great light lock, And by this lesser commerce keep: Yet by these glances of the flock I can discern wolves from the sheep. Not, but that I have wishes too, And pray, These last may be as first, Or better; but thou long ago Hast said, These last should be the worst. Besides, thy method with thy own, Thy own dear people pens our times, Our stories are in theirs set down And penalties spread to our crimes. Again, if worst and worst implies A state that no redress admits, Then from thy Cross unto these days The rule without exception fits. And yet, as in night's gloomy page One silent star may interline: So in this last and lewdest age, Thy ancient love on some may shine. For, though we hourly breathe decays, And our best note and highest ease Is but mere changing of the keys, And a consumption that doth please; Yet thou the great eternal Rock Whose height above all ages shines, Art still the same, and canst unlock Thy waters to a soul that pines. Since then thou art the same this day And ever, as thou wert of old, And nothing doth thy love allay But our hearts' dead and sinful cold: As thou long since wert pleased to buy Our drowned estate, taking the Curse Upon thyself, so to destroy The knots we tied upon thy purse, So let thy grace now make the way Even for thy love; for by that means We, who are nothing but foul clay, Shall be fine gold, which thou didst cleanse. O come! refine us with thy fire! Refine us! we are at a loss. Let not thy stars for Balaam's hire Dissolve into the common dross! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |
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