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Best Famous Richard Crashaw Poems

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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

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

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

Two Went up into the Temple to Pray

 Two went to pray? O rather say
One went to brag, th' other to pray:

One stands up close and treads on high,
Where th' other dares not send his eye.
One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.
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

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

Prayer

 LET us leave our island woods grown dim and blue;
O’er the waters creeping the pearl dust of the eve
Hides the silver of the long wave rippling through:
 The chill for the warm room let us leave.
Turn the lamp down low and draw the curtain wide, So the greyness of the starlight bathes the room; Let us see the giant face of night outside, Though vague as a moth’s wing is the gloom.
Rumour of the fierce-pulsed city far away Breaks upon the peace that aureoles our rest, Steeped in stillness as if some primeval day Hung drowsily o’er the water’s breast.
Shut the eyes that flame and hush the heart that burns: In quiet we may hear the old primeval cry: God gives wisdom to the spirit that upturns: Let us adore now, you and I.
Age on age is heaped about us as we hear: Cycles hurry to and fro with giant tread From the deep unto the deep: but do not fear, For the soul unhearing them is dead.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

To the Name above every Name the Name of Jesus

 I sing the Name which None can say
But touch’t with An interiour Ray:
The Name of our New Peace; our Good:
Our Blisse: and Supernaturall Blood:
The Name of All our Lives and Loves.
Hearken, And Help, ye holy Doves! The high-born Brood of Day; you bright Candidates of blissefull Light, The Heirs Elect of Love; whose Names belong Unto The everlasting life of Song; All ye wise Soules, who in the wealthy Brest Of This unbounded Name build your warm Nest.
Awake, My glory.
Soul, (if such thou be, And That fair Word at all referr to Thee) Awake and sing And be All Wing; Bring hither thy whole Self; and let me see What of thy Parent Heaven yet speakes in thee, O thou art Poore Of noble Powres, I see, And full of nothing else but empty Me, Narrow, and low, and infinitely lesse Then this Great mornings mighty Busynes.
One little World or two (Alas) will never doe.
We must have store.
Goe, Soul, out of thy Self, and seek for More.
Goe and request Great Nature for the Key of her huge Chest Of Heavns, the self involving Sett of Sphears (Which dull mortality more Feeles then heares) Then rouse the nest Of nimble, Art, and traverse round The Aiery Shop of soul-appeasing Sound: And beat a summons in the Same All-soveraign Name To warn each severall kind And shape of sweetnes, Be they such As sigh with supple wind Or answer Artfull Touch, That they convene and come away To wait at the love-crowned Doores of This Illustrious Day.
Shall we dare This, my Soul? we’l doe’t and bring No Other note for’t, but the Name we sing.
Wake Lute and Harp And every sweet-lipp’t Thing That talkes with tunefull string; Start into life, And leap with me Into a hasty Fitt-tun’d Harmony.
Nor must you think it much T’obey my bolder touch; I have Authority in Love’s name to take you And to the worke of Love this morning wake you; Wake; In the Name Of Him who never sleeps, All Things that Are, Or, what’s the same, Are Musicall; Answer my Call And come along; Help me to meditate mine Immortall Song.
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth, Bring All your houshold stuffe of Heavn on earth; O you, my Soul’s most certain Wings, Complaining Pipes, and prattling Strings, Bring All the store Of Sweets you have; And murmur that you have no more.
Come, n? to part, Nature and Art! Come; and come strong, To the conspiracy of our Spatious song.
Bring All the Powres of Praise Your Provinces of well-united Worlds can raise; Bring All your Lutes and Harps of Heaven and Earth; What ?re cooperates to The common mirthe Vessells of vocall Ioyes, Or You, more noble Architects of Intellectuall Noise, Cymballs of Heav’n, or Humane sphears, Solliciters of Soules or Eares; And when you’are come, with All That you can bring or we can call; O may you fix For ever here, and mix Your selves into the long And everlasting series of a deathlesse Song; Mix All your many Worlds, Above, And loose them into One of Love.
Chear thee my Heart! For Thou too hast thy Part And Place in the Great Throng Of This unbounded All-imbracing Song.
Powres of my Soul, be Proud! And speake lowd To All the dear-bought Nations This Redeeming Name, And in the wealth of one Rich Word proclaim New Similes to Nature.
May it be no wrong Blest Heavns, to you, and your Superiour song, That we, dark Sons of Dust and Sorrow, A while Dare borrow The Name of Your Dilights and our Desires, And fitt it to so farr inferior Lyres.
Our Murmurs have their Musick too, Ye mighty Orbes, as well as you, Nor yeilds the noblest Nest Of warbling Seraphim to the eares of Love, A choicer Lesson then the joyfull Brest Of a poor panting Turtle-Dove.
And we, low Wormes have leave to doe The Same bright Busynes (ye Third Heavens) with you.
Gentle Spirits, doe not complain.
We will have care To keep it fair, And send it back to you again.
Come, lovely Name! Appeare from forth the Bright Regions of peacefull Light, Look from thine own Illustrious Home, Fair King of Names, and come.
Leave All thy native Glories in their Georgeous Nest, And give thy Self a while The gracious Guest Of humble Soules, that seek to find The hidden Sweets Which man’s heart meets When Thou art Master of the Mind.
Come, lovely Name; life of our hope! Lo we hold our Hearts wide ope! Unlock thy Cabinet of Day Dearest Sweet, and come away.
Lo how the thirsty Lands Gasp for thy Golden Showres! with longstretch’t Hands.
Lo how the laboring Earth That hopes to be All Heaven by Thee, Leapes at thy Birth.
The’ attending World, to wait thy Rise, First turn’d to eyes; And then, not knowing what to doe; Turn’d Them to Teares, and spent Them too.
Come Royall Name, and pay the expence Of all this Pretious Patience.
O come away And kill the Death of This Delay.
O see, so many Worlds of barren yeares Melted and measur’d out is Seas of Teares.
O see, The Weary liddes of wakefull Hope (Love’s Eastern windowes) All wide ope With Curtains drawn, To catch The Day-break of Thy Dawn.
O dawn, at last, long look’t for Day! Take thine own wings, and come away.
Lo, where Aloft it comes! It comes, Among The Conduct of Adoring Spirits, that throng Like diligent Bees, And swarm about it.
O they are wise; And know what Sweetes are suck’t from out it.
It is the Hive, By which they thrive, Where All their Hoard of Hony lyes.
Lo where it comes, upon The snowy Dove’s Soft Back; And brings a Bosom big with Loves.
Welcome to our dark world, Thou Womb of Day! Unfold thy fair Conceptions; And display The Birth of our Bright Ioyes.
O thou compacted Body of Blessings: spirit of Soules extracted! O dissipate thy spicy Powres (Clowd of condensed sweets) and break upon us In balmy showrs; O fill our senses, And take from us All force of so Prophane a Fallacy To think ought sweet but that which smells of Thee.
Fair, flowry Name; In none but Thee And Thy Nectareall Fragrancy, Hourly there meetes An universall Synod of All sweets; By whom it is defined Thus That no Perfume For ever shall presume To passe for Odoriferous, But such alone whose sacred Pedigree Can prove it Self some kin (sweet name) to Thee.
Sweet Name, in Thy each Syllable A Thousand Blest Arabias dwell; A Thousand Hills of Frankincense; Mountains of myrrh, and Beds of species, And ten Thousand Paradises, The soul that tasts thee takes from thence.
How many unknown Worlds there are Of Comforts, which Thou hast in keeping! How many Thousand Mercyes there In Pitty’s soft lap ly a sleeping! Happy he who has the art To awake them, And to take them Home, and lodge them in his Heart.
O that it were as it was wont to be! When thy old Freinds of Fire, All full of Thee, Fought against Frowns with smiles; gave Glorious chase To Persecutions; And against the Face Of Death and feircest Dangers, durst with Brave And sober pace march on to meet A Grave.
On their Bold Brests about the world they bore thee And to the Teeth of Hell stood up to teach thee, In Center of their inmost Soules they wore thee, Where Rackes and Torments striv’d, in vain, to reach thee.
Little, alas, thought They Who tore the Fair Brests of thy Freinds, Their Fury but made way For Thee; And serv’d them in Thy glorious ends.
What did Their weapons but with wider pores Inlarge thy flaming-brested Lovers More freely to transpire That impatient Fire The Heart that hides Thee hardly covers.
What did their Weapons but sett wide the Doores For Thee: Fair, purple Doores, of love’s devising; The Ruby windowes which inrich’t the East Of Thy so oft repeated Rising.
Each wound of Theirs was Thy new Morning; And reinthron’d thee in thy Rosy Nest, With blush of thine own Blood thy day adorning, It was the witt of love ?reflowd the Bounds Of Wrath, and made thee way through All Those wounds.
Wellcome dear, All-Adored Name! For sure there is no Knee That knowes not Thee.
Or if there be such sonns of shame, Alas what will they doe When stubborn Rocks shall bow And Hills hang down their Heavn-saluting Heads To seek for humble Beds Of Dust, where in the Bashfull shades of night Next to their own low Nothing they may ly, And couch before the dazeling light of thy dread majesty.
They that by Love’s mild Dictate now Will not adore thee, Shall Then with Just Confusion, bow And break before thee.
Written by Richard Crashaw | Create an image from this poem

Prayer

 LO here a little volume, but great Book
A nest of new-born sweets;
Whose native fires disdaining
To ly thus folded, and complaining
Of these ignoble sheets,
Affect more comly bands
(Fair one) from the kind hands
And confidently look
To find the rest
Of a rich binding in your Brest.
It is, in one choise handfull, heavenn; and all Heavn’s Royall host; incamp’t thus small To prove that true schooles use to tell, Ten thousand Angels in one point can dwell.
It is love’s great artillery Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly Close couch’t in their white bosom: and from thence As from a snowy fortresse of defence, Against their ghostly foes to take their part, And fortify the hold of their chast heart.
It is an armory of light Let constant use but keep it bright, You’l find it yeilds To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and sheilds Then sin hath snares, or Hell hath darts.
Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons; and the eyes Those of turtles, chast and true; Wakefull and wise; Here is a freind shall fight for you, Hold but this book before their heart; Let prayer alone to play his part, But ? the heart That studyes this high Art Must be a sure house-keeper And yet no sleeper.
Dear soul, be strong.
Mercy will come e’re long And bring his bosom fraught with blessings, Flowers of never fading graces To make immortall dressings For worthy soules, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him, who is alone The Spouse of Virgins and the Virgin’s son.
But if the noble Bridegroom, when he come Shall find the loytering Heart from home; Leaving her chast aboad To gadde abroad Among the gay mates of the god of flyes; To take her pleasure and to play And keep the devill’s holyday; To dance th’sunshine of some smiling But beguiling Spheares of sweet and sugred Lyes, Some slippery Pair Of false, perhaps as fair, Flattering but forswearing eyes; Doubtlesse some other heart Will gett the start Mean while, and stepping in before Will take possession of that sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy ioyes.
Words which are not heard with Eares (Those tumultuous shops of noise) Effectuall wispers, whose still voice The soul it selfe more feeles then heares; Amorous languishments; luminous trances; Sights which are not seen with eyes; Spirituall and soul-peircing glances Whose pure and subtil lightning flyes Home to the heart, and setts the house on fire And melts it down in sweet desire Yet does not stay To ask the windows leave to passe that way; Delicious Deaths; soft exalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of ioyes and rarefy’d delights; A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystick thing Which the divine embraces Of the deare spouse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name.
Of all this store Of blessings and ten thousand more (If when he come He find the Heart from home) Doubtlesse he will unload Himself some other where, And poure abroad His pretious sweets On the fair soul whom first he meets.
O fair, ? fortunate! O riche, ? dear! O happy and thrice happy she Selected dove Who ere she be, Whose early love With winged vowes Makes hast to meet her morning spouse And close with his immortall kisses.
Happy indeed, who never misses To improve that pretious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey All fresh and fragrant as he rises Dropping with a baulmy Showr A delicious dew of spices; O let the blissfull heart hold fast Her heavnly arm-full, she shall tast At once ten thousand paradises; She shall have power To rifle and deflour The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets Which with a swelling bosome there she meets Boundles and infinite Bottomles treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures Happy proof! she shal discover What ioy, what blisse, How many Heav’ns at once it is To have her God become her Lover.
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.
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