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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.

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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

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

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

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

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

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.
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