Henry Vaughan

Here you will find the Poem Thou That Know'st for Whom I Mourn of poet Henry Vaughan

Thou That Know'st for Whom I Mourn

THOU that know'st for whom I mourn, 
And why these tears appear, 
That keep'st account till he return 
Of all his dust left here ; 
As easily Thou might'st prevent, 
As now produce, these tears, 
And add unto that day he went 
A fair supply of years. 
But 'twas my sin that forc'd Thy hand 
To cull this primrose out, 
That by Thy early choice forewarn'd 
My soul might look about. 
O what a vanity is man ! 
How like the eye's quick wink 
His cottage fails ; whose narrow span 
Begins even at the brink ! 
Nine months thy hands are fashioning us, 
And many years?alas !? 
Ere we can lisp, or ought discuss 
Concerning Thee, must pass ; 
Yet have I known Thy slightest things, 
A feather, or a shell, 
A stick, or rod, which some chance brings 
The best of us excel ; 
Yea, I have known these shreds outlast 
A fair-compacted frame, 
And for one twenty we have past 
Almost outlive our name. 
Thus hast Thou plac'd in man's outside 
Death to the common eye, 
That heaven within him might abide, 
And close eternity ; 
Hence youth, and folly, man's first shame, 
Are put unto the slaughter, 
And serious thoughts begin to tame 
The wise man's madness, laughter. 
Dull, wretched worms ! that would not keep 
Within our first fair bed, 
But out of Paradise must creep 
For ev'ry foot to tread ! 
Yet had our pilgrimage been free, 
And smooth without a thorn, 
Pleasures had foil'd eternity, 
And tares had chok'd the corn. 
Thus by the cross salvation runs ; 
Affliction is a mother 
Whose painful throes yield many sons, 
Each fairer than the other. 
A silent tear can pierce Thy throne, 
When loud joys want a wing ; 
And sweeter airs stream from a groan, 
Than any arted string. 
Thus, Lord, I see my gain is great, 
My loss but little to it ; 
Yet something more I must entreat, 
And only Thou canst do it. 
O let me?like him?know my end ! 
And be as glad to find it : 
And whatsoe'er Thou shalt commend, 
Still let Thy servant mind it ! 
Then make my soul white as his own, 
My faith as pure and steady, 
And deck me, Lord, with the same crown 
Thou hast crown'd him already !