1 If this world's friends might see but once What some poor man may often feel, Glory and gold and crowns and thrones They would soon quit, and learn to kneel. 2 My dew, my dew! my early love, My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! Hover not long, eternal Dove! Life without thee is loose and spills. 3 Something I had, which long ago Did learn to suck and sip and taste; But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste. 4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake One living drop! one drop life keeps! If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps! 5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, And soon as left shrinks back to ill; Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow And spread and open to thy will! 6 For thy eternal, living wells None stained or withered shall come near: A fresh, immortal green there dwells, And spotless white is all the wear. 7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below Tempests and winds and winter nights! Vex not that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights. 8 If those bright joys he singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads; And moons, though full, would get them down. 9 Let glory be their bait whose minds Are all too high for a low cell: Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell. 10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge; And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge. 11 What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself an outward test? Who breaks his glass to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest. 12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-winged reapers come! CHILDHOOD. I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven. Why should men love A wolf more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God's own beams? Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living (fie on men!) Are, when dead, medicinal then. If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise, Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself, Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul.