Classic Poem

The soull longing to be att home, can find no releive from the creture, but makes its moane to the god of pitty. July 18 72

How long shall thoughts perplex, and throng
For fear that I should here live long
and be deny'd
what is espy'd.

Thesse thoughts, doe put me on the rack
This is the thing which I doe lack
to be posest
of heavens rest.

None knows this pain, but those that feell
Ther souls, upon the racking wheel
Of strong desire
whilst they aspire.

And long to be posesed of
Ther hapynese which lys above
In heaven where
the angels are.

To thee my god, to thee alone
Ile call, & cry, and make my moane
For tis but vain
once to complain.

To man, who cannot help one whit
Or give, a plaister which may fit
the pained soul
or heall the hole.

Which nothing, but a god can fill
Enjoyed fully, on that hill
Above, where his
residence is.

Thou knowest the akeings of my hart
Only for fear, long time should part
And keep me here
below the spher.

Of glory, where I hope to fix
When no sin, shall my Joys eclips
Or take from me
a sight of thee.

Oh pity Lord, a restlese soull
Still reaching, out unto the goall
And cannot rest
till in thy breast.

It nestle doth, & still shall lye
Where it shall ne're draw of its eye
from that sweet face
soe full of grace.

Though yet, I cannot reach att thee
I would not be, exempt, & free
From this sweet pain
which brings, in gain.

For whilst thesse longings, on me grow
Though makest me, therby to know
that I do love
the god above.

In which I read thy love, to me
By reflect beams, of love to thee
Then I am thine
and thou art mine.

If it be thus, oh why should we
yet, Longer keept asunder bee
by this sad line
of ruged time.