Classic Poem

Love, September 1 72

Ther is one thing, which I would crave
The which alone, if I might have
it would sufice
And be my heaven, upon earth
Keeping my soull, free from all dearth
Love, is the grace I prize.

T'would be a heav'n in midst of hell
If love enflam'd, in me might dwell
give that to me
And then I shall not, will not care
For this worlds, overgiulded ware
but shall hasten to thee.

Love would my soull from self unty
And teach it sweetly, to deny
it self in what
Er'e is most deer to it, soe that
My will, should att thy feet ly flat
Leaving to thee, my lott.

Let love in me be pure, and strong
And still encresing. all along
untill I see
It grow, to such a mighty flame
As may reach up, from whence it came
and terminate in thee.

Oh let my love ne're ebbe, but flow
And more, and more, encrease and grow
Continually
Till it break through, the cretures ranks
And come to overleap, times banks
and to its centor fly.