Richard Crashaw

The Weeper

    HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
    Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
        Still spending, never spent; I mean
        Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

    Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
    'Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares
        Promise the earth to countershine
        Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

    Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
    Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
        Then to his music: and his song
        Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

    When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
    And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
        And draw from these full eyes of thine
        Their Master's water, their own wine.

    The dew no more will weep
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
    The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
        Much rather would it tremble here,
        And leave them both to be thy tear.

    When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
    —For she is a Queen—
Then is she drest by none but thee:
        Then and only then she wears
        Her richest pearls—I mean thy tears.

    Not in the evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping are
    For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
        Nowhere but here did ever meet
        Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

    Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
    Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
        Let day and night do what they will,
        Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

    Not So long she lived
Will thy tomb report of thee;
    But So long she grieved:
Thus must we date thy memory.
        Others by days, by months, by years,
        Measure their ages, thou by tears.

    Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
    Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can 'tice
        You to be born? What cause can borrow
        You from those nests of noble sorrow?

    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.