Quickness

False life, a foil and no more, when

Wilt thou be gone?

Thou foul deception of all men

That would not have the true come on.

Thou art a moon-like toil, a blind

Self-posing state,

A dark contest of waves and wind,

A mere tempestuous debate.

Life is a fixed, discerning light,

A knowing joy;

No chance or fit, but ever bright

And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.

'Tis such a blissful thing that still

Doth vivify

And shine and smile and hath the skill

To please without eternity.

Thou art a toilsome mole, or less;

A moving mist;

But life is what none can express:

A quickness which my God hath kissed.