Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, |
Nothing but bones, |
The sad effect of sadder groans: |
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
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For we considered thee as at some six |
Or ten years hence, |
After the loss of life and sense, |
Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks.
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We looked on this side of thee, shooting short; |
Where we did find |
The shells of fledge souls left behind, |
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may exhort.
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But since our Saviour’s death did put some blood |
Into thy face ; |
Thou art grown fair and full of grace, |
Much in request, much sought for, as a good.
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For we do now behold thee gay and glad, |
As at doomsday; |
When souls shall wear their new array, |
And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.
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George Herbert |
Classic Poems |
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