Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UPON WEDLOCK, AND DEATH OF CHILDREN, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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UPON WEDLOCK, AND DEATH OF CHILDREN, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: A curious knot god made in paradise
Last Line: Whether thou get'st them green, or lets them seed.
Subject(s): Death - Children; Parents; Puritans In Literature; Death - Babies; Parenthood


A curious knot God made in Paradise,
And drew it out inamled neatly fresh.
It was the true-love knot, more sweet than spice,
And set with all the flowers of grace's dress.
It's weddens knot, that ne'er can be unti'd:
No Alexander's sword can it divide.
The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow:
Unless an hellish breath do singe their plumes.
Here primrose, cowslips, roses, lillies blow,
With violets and pinks that void perfumes:
Whose beauteous leaves o'erlaid with honey dew,
And chanting birds chirp out sweet music true.
When in this knot I planted was, my stock
Soon knotted, and a manly flower outbrake.
And after it my branch again did knot:
Brought out another flow'r: its sweet-breath'd mate.
One knot gave one tother the tother's place.
Whence checkling smiles fought in each other's face.
But oh! a glorious hand from glory came,
Guarded with angels, soon did crop this flow'r,
Which almost tore the root up of the same,
At that unlookt for, dolesome, darksome hour.
In prayer to Christ perfum'd it did ascend,
And angels bright did it to heaven 'tend.
But pausing on't, this sweet perfum'd my thought,
Christ would in glory have a flow'r, choice, prime,
And having choice, chose this my branch forth brought.
Lord, take't. I thank Thee, Thou tak'st ought of mine;
It is my pledge in glory; part of me
Is now in it, Lord, glorified with Thee.
But praying o'er my branch, my branch did sprout,
And bore another manly flower, and gay,
And after that another sweet brake out,
The which the former hand soon got away.
But oh! the torture, vomit, screechings, groans:
And six weeks' fever would pierce hearts like stones.
Grief o'er doth flow: and nature fault would find
Were not Thy will my spell, charm, joy, and gem:
That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're Thine:
I piecemeal pass to glory bright in them.
I joy, may I sweet flowers for glory breed,
Whether Thou get'st them green, or lets them seed.






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