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Tag: Henry Vaughan

Unprofitableness

Poet: Henry Vaughan

How rich, O Lord, how fresh Thy visits are!
‘Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung,
     Sullied with dust and mud;

The Morning Watch

Poet: Henry Vaughan

O joys! Infinite sweetness! with what flowers
And shoots of glory, my soul breaks and buds!
          All the long hours
          Of night and rest,

The Night

Poet: Henry Vaughan

          Through that pure Virgin-shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o’er thy glorious noon
That men might look and live as glow-worms shine,