Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/388

 Whither away so fast For sure the sordid earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed,  The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head.     No such thing: we go to meet     A worthier object—our Lord's feet.   338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

Love, thou art absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child.