Quotes from Richard Crashaw

The conscious water saw its God, and blushed.

Love's passives are his activ'st part.The wounded is the wounding heart.

Whoe'er she be,That not impossible sheThat shall command my heart and me.

Great little One! whose all-embracing birth Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to Earth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest,And let the mighty babe alone.The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest.Love's architecture is his own.The babe whose birth embraves this morn,Made his own bed ere he was born.

Poor world (said I) what wilt thou doTo entertain this starry stranger?Is this the best thou canst bestow?A cold, and not too cleanly, manger?Contend, ye powers of heav'n and earth,To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Welcome, all wonders in one sight!Eternity shut in a span.

Two went to pray? Oh, rather sayOne went to brag, the other to pray.

By all the eagle in thee, all the dove.

All those fair and flagrant things.

I would be married, but I'd have no wife,I would be married to a single life.

Where'er she lie,Locked up from mortal eye,In shady leaves of destiny.

O thou undaunted daughter of desires!

Life that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!

A pillow for thee will I bring, Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

And when life's sweet fable ends, Soul and body part like friends; No quarrels, murmurs, no delay; A kiss, a sigh, and so away.

Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues, And there are words not made with lungs

Tis not the work of force but skill To find the way into man's will. Tis love alone can hearts unlock. Who knows the WORD, he needs not knock.

And when life's sweet fable ends, soul and body part like friends; no quarrels, murmurs, no delay; a kiss, a sigh, and so away.

Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life; Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of Thy reign, Distils from thence the tears of wrath and strife, And so turns wine to water back again.

Heaven's great artillery.

And I, what is my crime I cannot tell, Unless it be a crime to haue lou'd too well.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

In love's field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound.