A Poem For Sunday
False life! a foil and no more, when
Wilt thou be gone?
Thou foul deception of all men,
That would not have the true come on!
Thou art a moon-like toil; a blind
A dark contest of waves and wind;
A mere tempestuous debate.
Life is a fix'd, discerning light,
A knowing joy;
No chance, or fit: but ever bright,
And calm, and full, yet doth not cloy.
'Tis such a blissful thing, that still
And shine and smile, and hath the skill
To please without eternity.
Thou art a toilsome mole, or less,
A moving mist.
But life is, what none can express,
A quickness, which my God hath kiss'd.
- "Quickness" by Henry Vaughan.