Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE TEMPEST, by HENRY VAUGHAN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: How is man parcelled out! How ev'ry hour Last Line: Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! Alternate Author Name(s): Silurist | ||||||||
How is man parcelled out! how ev'ry hour Shows him himself, or something he should see! This late, long heat may his instruction be, And tempests have more in them than a shower. When nature on her bosom saw Her infants die, And all her flowers withered to straw, Her breasts grown dry; She made the Earth, their nurse and tomb, Sigh to the sky, Till to those sighs fetched from her womb Rain did reply, So in the midst of all her fears And faint requests Her earnest sighs procured her tears And filled her breasts. O that man could do so! that he would hear The world read to him! all the vast expense In the Creation shed and slaved to sense Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear. Sure, mighty love foreseeing the descent Of this poor Creature, by a gracious art Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And laid surprises in each element. All things here show him heaven; waters that fall Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. How do they cast off grossness? only earth And man (like Issachar) in loads delight, Water's refined to motion, air to light, Fire to all three, but man hath no such mirth. Plants in the root with earth do most comply, Their leafs with water and humidity, The flowers to air draw near, and subtlety, And seeds a kinred fire have with the sky. All have their keys and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown? Thus grovelling in the shade and darkness, he Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all He sees (like Pyramids) shoot from this ball And less'ning still grow up invisibly, Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears And painted trimming takes down both his eyes, Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better music than the spheres. Life's but a blast, he knows it; what? shall straw And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip, nor sing? grows ne'er a flower To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? How is it that the sun to thee alone Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread, a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? Lord! thou didst put a soul here; if I must Be broke again, for flints will give no fire Without a steel, O let thy power clear Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |
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