The Poems of Edward Taylor Edited by Donald E. Standford ... With a foreword by Louis L. Martz |
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| 48. | 48. Meditation on Matt. 25.21. Enter into the Joy of thy Lord. |
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 | The Poems of Edward Taylor |  |
48. Meditation on Matt. 25.21. Enter into the Joy of thy Lord.
10m? [Dec.] 1692.
When I, Lord, eye thy Joy, and my Love, small,
My heart gives in: what now? Strange! Sure I love thee!
And finding brambles 'bout my heart to crawl
My heart misgives mee. Prize I ought above thee?
Such great Love hugging them, such small Love, thee!
Whether thou hast my Love, I scarce can see.
My heart gives in: what now? Strange! Sure I love thee!
And finding brambles 'bout my heart to crawl
My heart misgives mee. Prize I ought above thee?
Such great Love hugging them, such small Love, thee!
Whether thou hast my Love, I scarce can see.
My reason rises up, and chides my Cup
Bright Loveliness itselfe. What not love thee!
Tumbling thy Joy, Lord, ore, it rounds me up.
Shall loves nest be a thorn bush: not thee bee?
Set Hovells up of thorn kids in my heart!
Avant adultrous Love. From me depart.
Bright Loveliness itselfe. What not love thee!
Tumbling thy Joy, Lord, ore, it rounds me up.
Shall loves nest be a thorn bush: not thee bee?
Set Hovells up of thorn kids in my heart!
Avant adultrous Love. From me depart.
The Influences my vile heart sucks in
Of Puddle Water boyld by Sunn beams till
Its Spiritless, and dead, nothing more thin
Tasts wealthier than those thou dost distill.
This seems to numb my heart to think that I
Should null all good to optimate a toy.
Of Puddle Water boyld by Sunn beams till
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Tasts wealthier than those thou dost distill.
This seems to numb my heart to think that I
Should null all good to optimate a toy.
Yet when the beamings, Lord, of thy rich Joys,
Do guild my Soule, meethinks I'm sure I Love thee.
They Calcine all these brambly trumperys
And now I'm sure that I prize naught above thee.
Thy beams making a bonefire of my Stack
Of Faggots, bring my Love to thee in'ts pack.
Do guild my Soule, meethinks I'm sure I Love thee.
They Calcine all these brambly trumperys
And now I'm sure that I prize naught above thee.
Thy beams making a bonefire of my Stack
Of Faggots, bring my Love to thee in'ts pack.
For when the Objects of thy Joy impress
Their shining influences on my heart
My Soule seems an Alembick doth possess
Love stilld into rich Spirits by thy Art.
And all my pipes, were they ten thousand would
Drop Spirits of Love on thee, more rich than gold.
Their shining influences on my heart
My Soule seems an Alembick doth possess
Love stilld into rich Spirits by thy Art.
And all my pipes, were they ten thousand would
Drop Spirits of Love on thee, more rich than gold.
Now when the world with all her dimples in't
Smiles on me, I do love thee more than all:
And when her glory freshens, all in print,
I prize thee still above it all. And shall.
Nay all her best to thee, do what she can,
Drops but like drops dropt in a Closestoole pan.
Smiles on me, I do love thee more than all:
And when her glory freshens, all in print,
I prize thee still above it all. And shall.
Nay all her best to thee, do what she can,
Drops but like drops dropt in a Closestoole pan.
The Castings of thy Joy, my Lord therefore
Let in the Cabbin of my Joy rise high,
And let thy Joy enter in mee before
I enter do into my masters joy.
Thy joyes in mee will make my Pipes to play
For joy thy Praise while teather'd to my clay.
Let in the Cabbin of my Joy rise high,
And let thy Joy enter in mee before
I enter do into my masters joy.
Thy joyes in mee will make my Pipes to play
For joy thy Praise while teather'd to my clay.
| The Poems of Edward Taylor | |