Tell me not, mournful Preacher
Tell me not, mournful Preacher, that to prize
Beauty of flower or song or mistress fair,
Is to forgo the sweets of Paradise.
Say not, ‘Life’s pleasance is a deathly snare:
Shun it, so would’st thou save thy soul alive;
Blind thee, & in drear temple pray & strive’.
Know thou, all gladness is God’s house of grace;
All loveliness is thy Belovéd’s face;
All beauteous earth is Heav’n’s gay garden-ground.
To love the rose, the fair, the gladsome bird,
Life’s lovely bliss, wherever it be found,
To love love’s truth from whomsoever heard,
This is their faith, who see with seeing eyes,
Their worship & their endless Paradise.