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.
