Richard Crashaw (1613-1649)

A Song

Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace
Sends up my soul to seek thy face,
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,
I die in love’s delicious Fire.
O love, I am thy Sacrifice.
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes.
Still shine on me, fair suns! that I
Still may behold, though still I die.

Though still I die, I live again;
Still longing so to be still slain,
So gainful is such loss of breath.
I die even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife
Of living Death and dying Life.
For while thou sweetly slayest me
Dead to my self, I live in Thee.

An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who Died and were Buried Together

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.