James Shirley: A Hymn
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A Hymn

1596-1666


O FLY, my Soul! What hangs upon
         Thy drooping wings,
         And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things?

The Sun is now i' the east: each shade
         As he doth rise
         Is shorter made,
That earth may lessen to our eyes.

O be not careless then and play
         Until the Star of Peace
Hide all his beams in dark recess!
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase.


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DayPoems Poem No. 287



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