Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SUSPIRIUM, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT



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SUSPIRIUM, by            
First Line: Life of my soule, bright lord of love
Last Line: To thee ye easier shall I swimm.
Subject(s): Future Life; Grief; Love; Soul; Vision; Retribution; Eternity; After Life; Sorrow; Sadness


LIFE of my soule, bright Lord of Love,
When shall I from my selfe remove
To Thee, & to thy Things above !

This weary world can nothing show
To court an Heart, & make it grow
In love with any thing below:

So speaks a generous Soule. But I
Faint as I am, & weak doe lie
Striving, alas, to Think, & Crie.

I think a thousand thoughts a day,
Yet think not one: each doth betray
It selfe, & halfe-made flyes away.

I think of Heav'n, I think of Hell,
Of what both heer & there doth dwell:
Yet what I think I cannot tell.

Through all ye World my Mind does run,
And when her foolish Course is done,
She onely is where she begun.

Such Hudling and Perplexity
In my tumultuous Heart there bee,
That seing all, I nothing see.

Sometimes my venturous Thoughts aspire
Upon the wings of brave Desire,
The High Creator to admire.

But straight some worldly Dust flyes up,
And my too-willing eyes doth stop,
Before they reach that Glorious Top.

Great Prince of Peace, give Thou some rest
To these Commotions of my breast
So shall my Thoughts and I be blest.

Me thinks I feele my pregnant eyes
Oft times with full-tide sorrow rise:
But straight ye living fountaine dies.

So the vaine miste fills all ye skie
Wth hopes of Rain, yet by & by
It leaves it far more hot & dry.

Had any eyes more cause to weep,
Some plea there were for mine to keep
Themselves and all their Tears asleep.

But if more Mire is lodgd in Mee
Then in ye bottom of ye Sea,
Why flow not I, as well as Shee?

Sometimes I feele ye Storme arise
In swelling sighs; yet out it flies,
And drives no Clouds into mine eyes.

All other Blasts can coole ye skie,
With Copious Humidity:
Alas, no winds but mine are drie.

Marble that cold obdurate stone
Abounds with Teares, whilst I have none,
Though of ye same Complexion.

Clowds, though as light as I, & vaine,
When gaping Earth doth crave for raine,
Some welcome drops at least doe strain.

But only I a parched Land,
And thirsty as ye Lybian Sand,
Of my owne Springs have no Command.

Broach Thou dear Lord my Springs for me,
That all their streames may run to Thee,
And in thy Bottle treasur'd bee.

For Thee I thirst more then for Them,
But if Thou steer'st me through this stream
To Thee ye easier shall I swimm.





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