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Thomas Campion

O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

 
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About the poet
Thomas Campion
 
By the same poet
Winter Nights
Cherry-Ripe
Laura
Devotion (i)
Devotion (ii)
Vobiscum est Iope
A Hymn in Praise of Neptune
Integer Vitae
 
Related books
Thomas Campion at amazon.com


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