But this coarse fleece, I shelter in, is slave To no such piece. But what their own homes weave. Perhaps that tear Had mourn'd thy loss, not mine.
Death sets all out of joint, And scorns their glory.
The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist . All Rights Reserved. Created by Anniina Jokinen on July 28, 1997. Last updated on October 16, 2000. Background by the kind permission of Gini Schmitz .