C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
They are All Gone
By Henry Vaughan (16211695)
T
And I alone sit ling’ring here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Like stars upon some gloomy grove.
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Meer glimmerings and decays.
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have shewed them me
To kindle my cold love.
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted theams,
And into glory peep.
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lockt her up gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphære.
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.