POETRY: Sunday, by George Herbert

August 12, 2012

O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world’s bud, Th’ indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care’s balm and bay, The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man, whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow. The worky-days are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone To endless death; but thou dost pull And turn us round to look on one Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone The which he doth not fill. Sundays the pillars [...]