MY stock lies dead, and no increase Doth my dull husbandrie improve: O let thy graces, without cease, Drop from above! If still the sunne should hide his face, Thy house would but a dungeon prove, Thy works nights captives: O let grace Drop from above! The dew doth ev'ry morning fall; And shall the dew outstrip thy Dove? The dew, for which grasse cannot call, Drop from above! Death is still working like a mole, And digs my grave at each remove: Let grace work too, and on my soul Drop from above. Sinne is still hammering my heart Unto a hardnesse void of love: Let suppling grace, to crosse his art, Drop from above. O come! for thou dost know the way; Or if to me thou wilt not move, Remove me, where I need not say, -- Drop from above. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MINOR POET by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET NOT TRANSHISTORICAL DEATH, OR AT LEAST NOT QUITE by HAYDEN CARRUTH MAGDALEN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A JOYFUL SONG OF FIVE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |