RICHARD CRASHAW 1615(?)–1652

Lo, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native pages, ’sdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast!

It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Heaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus small To prove that true schools use to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love’s great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You’ll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here’s a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part.

But, O! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong; Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings, Flowers of never-fading graces, To make immortal dressings For worthy souls, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Son.

But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies To take her pleasure, and to play And keep the Devil’s holy day; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, But beguiling Spheres of sweet and sugared lies, Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but forswearing, eyes;

Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before, Will take possession of that sacred store Of hidden sweets, and holy joys, Words which are not heard with ears— These tumultuous shops of noise— Effectual whispers, whose still voice The soul itself more feels than hears;

Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Sights which are not seen with eyes, Spiritual and soul-piercing glances Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire And melts it down in sweet desire, Yet does not stay To ask the window’s leave to pass that way;

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied delights;

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name.

Of all this store Of blessings, and ten thousand more, If when He come He find the heart from home, Doubtless He will unload Himself some otherwhere, And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first He meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! O happy, and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe’er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, And close with His immortal kisses! Happy, indeed, who never misses To improve that precious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as He rises, Dropping, with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices.

O, let the blessful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises! She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets; Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover!

What succour can I hope the Muse will send, Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse’s friend? What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee, Unless the Muse sing my apology? O! in that morning of my shame, when I Lay folded up in sleep’s captivity; How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes, Into thy modest veil! how didst thou rise Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst run To draw the curtains and awake the sun! Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came, And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides; And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take My own Apollo, try if I can make His Lethe be my Helicon, and see If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me. Hence ’tis my humble fancy finds no wings, No nimble raptures, starts to heaven and brings Enthusiastic flames, such as can give Marrow to my plump genius, make it live Dressed in the glorious madness of a muse, Whose feet can walk the milky-way, and choose Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm The grave, and hold up an exalted arm To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time, And trace eternity. But all is dead, All these delicious hopes are buried In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow, Where mercy cannot find them; but, O thou Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lie So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die; Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise, O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes, And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss. So to the treasure of thy pearly dew Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock At the oriental gates, and duly mock The early lark’s shrill orisons to be An anthem at the day’s nativity. And the same rosy-fingered hand of thine, That shuts night’s dying eyes, shall open mine. But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I Was ever known to be thy votary. No more my pillow shall thine altar be, Nor will I offer any more to thee Myself a melting sacrifice; I’m born Again a fresh child of the buxom morn, Heir of the sun’s first beams; why threat’st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go, Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe, Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne’er know Thy downy finger dwell upon their eyes; Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries.

Love, brave Virtue’s younger brother, Erst hath made my heart a mother. She consults the anxious spheres, To calculate her young son’s years; She asks if sad or saving powers Gave omen to his infant hours; She asks each star that then stood by If poor Love shall live or die.

Ah, my heart, is that the way? Are these the beams that rule thy day? Thou know’st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love’s fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love’s fate. Ah, my heart! her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe’er Love’s native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, ’Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die.

If those sharp rays, putting on Points of death, bid Love be gone; Though the heavens in council sat To crown an uncontrolled fate; Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on his birth, And whispered the confederate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood:— Love has no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die.

But if her milder influence move, And gild the hopes of humble Love;— Though heaven’s inauspicious eye Lay black on Love’s nativity; Though every diamond in Jove’s crown Fixed his forehead to a frown;— Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.

O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live.

Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die!

Know you, fair, on what you look? Divinest love lies in this book, Expecting fire from your eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think you’ve an angel by the wings; One that gladly will be nigh To wait upon each morning sigh, To flutter in the balmy air Of your well perfumed prayer. These white plumes of his he’ll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, And all the smooth-faced kindred there. And though Herbert’s name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.

Whoe’er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where’er she he, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie.

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest.

A cheek where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly rueth.

A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.

Lips where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simple nakedness.

Eyes that displace Their neighbour diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are;

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes that bestow Full quivers on love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys that confess, Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears fond and slight As the coy bride’s, when night First does the longing lover right.

Tears quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; ’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers’ play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter’s head with flowers.

Whate’er delight Can make day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of night.

In her whole frame, Have Nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her that dares he What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

’Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character.

May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions:—but her story.

Come, we shepherds whose blest sight Hath met Love’s noon in Nature’s night; Come lift we up our loftier song, And wake the sun that lies too long.

To all our world of well-stol’n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, While we found out Heaven’s fairer eye, And kissed the cradle of our King; Tell him he rises now too late To show us aught worth looking at.

Tell him we now can show him more Than he e’er showed to mortal sight, Than he himself e’er saw before, Which to be seen needs not his light: Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been, Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen.

Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble infant lay: The babe looked up, and showed His face; In spite of darkness it was day. It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise, Not from the East, but from Thine eyes. Chorus. It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise, Not from the East, but from Thine eyes.

Winter chid aloud, and sent The angry North to wage his wars: The North forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers. Chorus. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers.

We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the East, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow— A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth. Chorus. Contend the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone, The phœnix builds the phœnix’ nest, Love’s architecture is his own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born. Chorus. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o’er the place’s head, Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant’s bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold, Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.

I saw th’ obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? Chorus. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?

No, no, your King’s not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloomed cheek ’Twixt mother’s breasts is gone to bed. Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow! Chorus. Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow!

Welcome all wonders in one sight! Eternity shut in a span! Summer in winter! day in night!

Heaven in earth! and God in man! Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth, Welcome, tho’ nor to gold, nor silk, To more than Cæsar’s birthright is: Two sister seas of virgin’s milk, With many a rarely-tempered kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other.

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie. She ’gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle’s eyes.

Welcome—tho’ not to those gay flies, Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes— But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit’s to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed, We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Of noon’s high glory, when, hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, Under protection of an oak, there sat A sweet lute’s master: in whose gentle airs He lost the day’s heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:— The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Their muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she,— There stood she list’ning, and did entertain The music’s soft report, and mould the same In her own murmurs, that whatever mood His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. The man perceived his rival, and her art; Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport, Awakes his lute, and ’gainst the fight to come Informs it, in a sweet præludium Of closer strains; and ere the war begin He slightly skirmishes on every string, Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she Carves out her dainty voice as readily Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones; And reckons up in soft divisions Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know By that shrill taste she could do something too. His nimble hand’s instinct then taught each string A cap’ring cheerfulness; and made them sing To their own dance; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together, then distinctly trips From this to that, then, quick returning, skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt— Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out— Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note Through the sleek passage of her open throat: A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being reared In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet sell she wrangles; he, amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, The tattling strings—each breathing in his part— Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling bass In surly groans disdains the treble’s grace; The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chides Until his finger—moderator—hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once: as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th’ harvest of death’s field, and woo Men’s hearts into their hands; this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o’er her skill, And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song; Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs, whose thund’ring volleys float And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, ’stilled out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody,— Music’s best seed-plot; when in ripened ears A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire Founded to th’ name of great Apollo’s lyre; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon; and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing;— Most divine service! whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song; Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast; Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Winged with their own wild echos, pratt’ling fly. She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the waved back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train; And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war’s hoarse bird; Her little soul is ravished; and so poured Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed Above herself—music’s enthusiast! Shame now and anger mixed a double stain In the musician’s face: Yet once again, Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be for ever mute; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy! So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings: The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted, Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted: Trembling as when Apollo’s golden hairs Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven’s self look higher; From this to that, from that to this, he flies, Feels music’s pulse in all her arteries; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, Following those little rills, he sinks into A sea of Helicon; his hand does go Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe’s cup: The humorous strings expound his learned touch By various glosses; now they seem to grutch And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single; Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke, Gives life to some new grace: thus doth he invoke Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus— Fraught with a fury so harmonious— The lute’s light Genius now does proudly rise, Heaved on the surges of swoll’n rhapsodies, Whose flourish, meteor-like, doth curl the air With flash of high-born fancies; here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs, Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares; Because those precious mysteries that dwell In music’s ravished soul he dare not tell, But whisper to the world: thus do they vary, Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their master’s blest soul, snatched out at his ears By a strong ecstasy, through all the spheres Of music’s heaven; and seat it there on high In th’ empyræum of pure harmony. At length—after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers’ fairest revolution, In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall— A full-mouthed diapason swallows all. This done, he lists what she would say to this; And she, although her breath’s late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas, in vain! for while, sweet soul, she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt’ring strings, by the small size of one Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone, She fails; and failing, grieves; and grieving, dies; She dies, and leaves her life the victor’s prize, Falling upon his lute. O, fit to have— That lived so sweetly—dead, so sweet a grave!

Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa, as she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her

Well-meaning readers! you that come as friends And catch the precious name this piece pretends, Make not too much haste t’ admire That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire. That is a seraphim, they say, And this the great Teresia. Readers, be ruled by me, and make Here a well-placed and wise mistake; You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right; Read Him for Her, and Her for Him, And call the saint the seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand? See, even the years and size of him Shows this the mother seraphim. This is the mistress flame, and duteous he Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see: O, most poor-spirited of men! Had thy cold pencil kissed her pen, Thou couldst not so unkindly err To show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame, And mocks with female frost love’s manly flame; One would suspect thou meant’st to paint Some weak, inferior woman Saint. But, had thy pale-faced purple took Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, Thou wouldst on her have heaped up all That could be found seraphical; Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair, Rosy fingers, radiant hair, Glowing cheek, and glist’ring wings, All those fair and flagrant things; But, before all, that fiery dart Had filled the hand of this great heart. Do, then, as equal right requires, Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires, Resume and rectify thy rude design, Undress thy seraphim into mine; Redeem this injury of thy art, Give him the veil, give her the dart. Give him the veil, that he may cover The red cheeks of a rivalled lover, Ashamed that our world now can show Nests of new Seraphims here below. Give her the dart, for it is she, Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee; Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts That live and die amidst her darts, What is’t your tasteful spirits do prove In that rare life of her and love? Say and bear witness. Sends she not A seraphim at every shot? What magazines of immortal arms there shine! Heav’n’s great artillery in each love-spun line! Give, then, the dart to her who gives the flame, Give him the veil who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worst faults to be fortunate, If all’s prescription, and proud wrong Hearkens not to an humble song, For all the gallantry of him, Give me the suff’ring seraphim. His be the bravery of those bright things, The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings, The rosy hand, the radiant dart; Leave her alone the flaming heart. Leave her that, and thou shalt leave her Not one loose shaft, but Love’s whole quiver. For in Love’s field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound. Love’s passives are his activ’st part, The wounded is the wounding heart. O, heart! the equal poise of Love’s both parts, Big alike with wounds and darts, Live in these conquering leaves, live all the same, And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame! Live here, great heart, and love, and die, and kill, And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still. Let this immortal Life, where’er it comes, Walk in the crowd of loves and martyrdoms. Let mystic deaths wait on’t, and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. O, sweet incendiary! show here thy art Upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart; Let all thy scattered shafts of light, that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, Combined against this breast, at once break in And take away from me myself and sin; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. O, thou undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and fires, By all the eagle in thee, all the dove, By all thy lives and deaths of love, By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirst of love more large than they; By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire, By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His; By all the heav’ns thou hast in Him, Fair sister of the seraphim! By all of Him we have in thee, Leave nothing of myself in me: Let me so read thy life that I Unto all life of mine may die.