Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Richard Crashaw Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Richard Crashaw poems. This is a select list of the best famous Richard Crashaw poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Richard Crashaw poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Richard Crashaw poems.

Search for the best famous Richard Crashaw poems, articles about Richard Crashaw poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Richard Crashaw poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife

 TO these whom death again did wed
This grave 's the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

The Flaming Heart

 O heart, the equal poise of love's both parts,
Big alike with wounds and darts,
Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same,
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;
Live here, great heart, and love and die and kill,
And bleed and wound, and yield and conquer still.
Let this immortal life, where'er it comes, Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms; Let mystic deaths wait on 't, and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art, Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart, Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, Combin'd against this breast, at once break in And take away from me my self and sin; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dow'r of lights and fires, By all the eagle in thee, all the dove, By all thy lives and deaths of love, By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they, By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire, By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seiz'd thy parting soul and seal'd thee his, By all the heav'ns thou hast in him, Fair sister of the seraphim! By all of him we have in thee, Leave nothing of my self in me: Let me so read thy life that I Unto all life of mine may die.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Wishes To His (Supposed) Mistress

 Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth
Of studied fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty, That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie; Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan; More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.
A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest: A face made up Out of no other shop Than what nature's white hand sets ope.
A cheek where youth And blood with pen of truth Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.
A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all day A lovers kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine by their own sweet graces.
Tresses, that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are; Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joyes, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and flight As the coy bride's when night First does the longing lover right.
Tears, quickly fled And vain as those are shed For a dying maidenhead.
Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forspent night of sorrow.
Days, that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by th' absence of the day.
Life, that dares send A challenge to its end, And when it comes say Welcome Friend.
Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter's head with flowers.
Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers 'Bove all; nothing within that lours.
Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of night.
In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame.
Her flattery Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be.
I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more.
Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows; Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she.
'Tis she, and here Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character.
May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions, but her story.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

The Weeper

 HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
 Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
 Still spending, never spent; I mean
 Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.
Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.
When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come, And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.
The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.
When sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, --For she is a Queen-- Then is she drest by none but thee: Then and only then she wears Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.
Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
Does the night arise? Still thy tears do fall and fall.
Does night lose her eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all.
Let day and night do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
Not So long she lived Will thy tomb report of thee; But So long she grieved: Thus must we date thy memory.
Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears.
Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair eyes Your fruitful mothers, What make you here? What hopes can 'tice You to be born? What cause can borrow You from those nests of noble sorrow? Whither away so fast For sure the sordid earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, Why you trip so fast away? We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head.
No such thing: we go to meet A worthier object--our Lord's feet.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

But Men Loved Darkness rather than Light

 The world's light shines, shine as it will,
The world will love its darkness still.
I doubt though when the world's in hell, It will not love its darkness half so well.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Christ Crucified

 THY restless feet now cannot go
 For us and our eternal good,
As they were ever wont.
What though They swim, alas! in their own flood? Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift! It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Verses from the Shepherds Hymn

 WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
 Young dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from the East,
 And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow-- A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.
Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.
I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.
I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below.
Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow! She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.
Welcome--tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

In the Holy Nativity of our Lord

 CHORUS
Come we shepherds whose blest sight
Hath met love's noon in nature's night;
Come lift we up our loftier song
And wake the sun that lies too long.
To all our world of well-stol'n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, While we found out heav'n's fairer eye, And kiss'd the cradle of our King.
Tell him he rises now too late To show us aught worth looking at.
Tell him we now can show him more Than he e'er show'd to mortal sight, Than he himself e'er saw before, Which to be seen needs not his light.
Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been; Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen.
TITYRUS Gloomy night embrac'd the place Where the Noble Infant lay; The Babe look'd up and show'd his face, In spite of darkness, it was day.
It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise Not from the east, but from thine eyes.
CHORUS It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise Not from the east, but from thine eyes.
THYRSIS Winter chid aloud, and sent The angry North to wage his wars; The North forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars.
By those sweet eyes' persuasive pow'rs, Where he meant frost, he scatter'd flow'rs.
CHORUS By those sweet eyes' persuasive pow'rs, Where he meant frost, he scatter'd flow'rs.
BOTH We saw thee in thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day! We saw thine eyes break from their east And chase the trembling shades away.
We saw thee, and we bless'd the sight, We saw thee by thine own sweet light.
TITYRUS Poor World, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow, A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? Contend, ye powers of heav'n and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.
CHORUS Contend, ye powers of heav'n and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.
THYRSIS Proud World, said I, cease your contest, And let the Mighty Babe alone; The ph{oe}nix builds the ph{oe}nix' nest, Love's architecture is his own; The Babe whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed ere he was born.
CHORUS The Babe whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed ere he was born.
TITYRUS I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow To furnish the fair Infant's bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.
CHORUS Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.
THYRSIS I saw the obsequious Seraphims Their rosy fleece of fire bestow; For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heav'n itself lies here below.
Well done, said I, but are you sure Your down so warm will pass for pure? CHORUS Well done, said I, but are you sure Your down so warm will pass for pure? TITYRUS No no, your King's not yet to seek Where to repose his royal head; See see, how soon his new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt's mother's breasts is gone to bed.
Sweet choice, said we! no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.
CHORUS Sweet choice, said we! no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.
BOTH We saw thee in thy balmy nest, Bright dawn of our eternal day! We saw thine eyes break from their east, And chase the trembling shades away.
We saw thee, and we bless'd the sight, We saw thee, by thine own sweet light.
CHORUS We saw thee, and we bless'd the sight, We saw thee, by thine own sweet light.
FULL CHORUS Welcome, all wonders in one sight! Eternity shut in a span; Summer in winter; day in night; Heaven in earth, and God in man.
Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heav'n to earth.
Welcome; though nor to gold nor silk, To more than C{ae}sar's birthright is; Two sister seas of virgin-milk, With many a rarely temper'd kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other.
Welcome, though not to those gay flies Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes; But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit, to be Well read in their simplicity.
Yet when young April's husband-show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flow'rs To kiss thy feet and crown thy head.
To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds more than they the sheep.
To thee, meek Majesty! soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves; Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

On Mr. G. Herberts Book Entitled the Temple of Sacred Poe

 Know you fair, on what you look;
Divinest love lies in this book,
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings, Think you'have an angel by th' wings.
One that gladly will be nigh, To wait upon each morning sigh.
To flutter in the balmy air Of your well-perfumed prayer.
These white plumes of his he'll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, And all the smooth-fac'd kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.
Credits and CopyrightTogether with the editors, the Department ofEnglish (University of Toronto), and the University of Toronto Press,the following individuals share copyright for the work that wentinto this edition:Screen Design (Electronic Edition): Sian Meikle (University ofToronto Library)Scanning: Sharine Leung (Centre for Computing in the Humanities)
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Divine Epigrams: On the Miracle of the Multiplied Loaves

 See here an easy feast that knows no wound,
That under hunger's teeth will needs be sound;
A subtle harvest of unbounded bread,
What would ye more? Here food itself is fed.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Prayer

 Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,
Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgramage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th'Almightie, sinners towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,
The land of spices; something understood.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Prayer

 I ASK good things that I detest,
With speeches fair;
Heed not, I pray Thee, Lord, my breast,
But hear my prayer.
I say ill things I would not say - Things unaware: Regard my breast, Lord, in Thy day, And not my prayer.
My heart is evil in Thy sight: My good thoughts flee: O Lord, I cannot wish aright - Wish Thou for me.
O bend my words and acts to Thee, However ill, That I, whate'er I say or be, May serve Thee still.
O let my thoughts abide in Thee Lest I should fall: Show me Thyself in all I see, Thou Lord of all.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Divine Epigrams: To our Lord upon the Water Made Wine

 Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life,
Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign,
Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife,
And so turns wine to water back again.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

 LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death.
To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill.
Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do.
Nor has she e'er yet understood Why, to show love, she should shed blood; Yet, though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die.
Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love.
.
.
.
Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel for a martyrdom.
No home for her, confesses she, But where she may a martyr be.
She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem; She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give Them God, and teach them how to live In Him; or, if they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die.
So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu! Teresa is no more for you.
Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, Never till now esteemed toys! Farewell whatever dear may be-- Mother's arms, or father's knee! Farewell house, and farewell home! She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom.
.
.
.
O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain! Of intolerable joys! Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would for ever so be slain; And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he still may die! How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at once die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh, and then,-- O what? Ask not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, And hold them fast for ever there.
So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come, And in her first ranks make thee room; Where, 'mongst her snowy family, Immortal welcomes wait for thee.
O what delight, when she shall stand And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses! What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart! Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows.
All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall shine, And thy sufferings be divine.
Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems.
Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew.
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ Love's noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.
Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace.
Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, And with them all about thee bow To Him; put on, He'll say, put on, My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls, whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars; and so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.
And, wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, Which who in death would live to see, Must learn in life to die like thee.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Divine Epigrams: Samson to his Delilah

 Could not once blinding me, cruel, suffice?
When first I look'd on thee, I lost mine eyes.