"The Lampe" by Henry Vaughan

'Tis dead night round about: Horrour doth creepe
And move on with the shades; stars nod and sleepe,
And through the dark aire spin a firie thread,
Such as doth gild the lazy glow-worm's bed.
Yet burn'st thou here a full day, while I spend
My rest in cares, and to the dark world lend
These flames, as thou dost thine to me; I watch
That houre, which must thy life and mine dispatch,
But still thou doest out-goe me, I can see
Met in thy flames all acts of piety;
Thy light, is Charity; Thy heat, is Zeale;
And thy aspiring, active fires reveale
Devotion still on wing; Then thou dost weepe
Still as thou burns, and the warm droppings creepe
To measure out thy length, as if thou'dst know
What stock, and how much time were left thee now;
Nor dost thou spend one tear in vain, for still
As thou dissolv'st to them, and they distill,
They're stor'd up in the socket, where they lye,
When all is spent, thy last and sure supply:
And such is true repentance; ev'ry breath
Wee spend in sighs is treasure after death.
Only one point escapes thee; that thy oile
Is still out with thy flame, and so both faile;
But wheresoe're I'm out, both shall be in,
And where thou mad'st an end, there I'le begin.

Mark XIII:35
Watch you therefore, for you know not when the master of the house cometh , at Evening, or at Midnight, or at the Cock-crowing, or in the Morning.


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As some of you may remember, there was once a time when I fairly regularly shared with my 'Watchers' poems that I both enjoyed and was inspired by. I thought that, in lieu of submitting an original piece (of which, I have nothing noteworthy to report,) I would attempt to reinitialize this old ritual. Largely, this is my way of communicating to the world that I still exist (albeit, in a quieter, less creative, and ultimately, derivative way.)