The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/Whitsunday

by George Herbert

¶ Whitsunday.

LIsten sweet Dove unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
 Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with thee.

 Where is that fire which once descended
 On thy Apostles? thou didst then
 Keep open house, richly attended,
Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

 Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
 That th' earth did like a heav'n appeare;
 The starres were coming down to know
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

 The sunne, which once did shine alone,
 Hung down his head, and wisht for night,
 When he beheld twelve sunnes for one
Going about the world, and giving light.

 But since those pipes of gold, which brought
 That cordiall water to our ground,
 Were cut and martyr'd by the fault
Of those, who did themselves through their side wound

 Thou shutt'st the doore, and keep'st within;
 Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:
 And if the braves of conqu'ring sinne
Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.

 Lord, though we change, thou art the same;
 The same sweet God of love and light:
 Restore this day, for thy great Name,
Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

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