Thomas Carew



THIS little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb ;
The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here,
For ever set to us, by death
Sent to inflame the world beneath.
'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again ;
A budding star, that might have grown
Into a sun when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in love's declining state ;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free ;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear :
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.

Vincent, Arthur, ed. The Poems of Thomas Carew.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., nd. 77.

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