# The Temple - Author: [George Herbert](https://www.leafyquotes.com/george-herbert.md) - Quotes: 61 - Book page: https://www.leafyquotes.com/george-herbert/the-temple ## Quotes > Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart > > Could have recovered greenness? > Whereas if the heart be moved, > > Although the verse be somewhat scant, > > God doth supply the want. > Thy rope of sands, > > Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee > > Good cable, to enforce and draw, > > And be thy law, > > While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. > Surely if each saw another's heart, > > There would be no commerce, > > No sale or bargain pass: all would disperse, > > And live apart. > Most things move th' under-jaw; the Crocodile not. > > Most things sleep lying; th' Elephant leans or stands. > I struck the board, and cry'd, No more. > > I will abroad. > > What? shall I ever sigh and pine? > > My lines and life are free; free as the road, > > Loose as the wind, as large as store. > > Shall I be still in suit? > > Have I no harvest but a thorn > > To let me blood, and not restore > > What I have lost with cordial fruit? > > Sure there was wine > > Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn > > Before my tears did drown it; > > Is the year only lost to me? > > Have I no bays to crown it? > But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wild > > At every word, > > Methought I heard one calling, Child! > > And I reply'd, My Lord. > The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords > > If when the soul unto the lines accords. > Throw away thy rod; > > Though man frailties hath, > > Thou art God: > > Throw away thy wrath. > Let him be rich and weary, that at least, > > If goodness lead him not, yet weariness > > May toss him to my breast. > Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears. > Teach me, my God and King, > > In all things thee to see > > And what I do in any thing, > > To do it as for thee. > O who will show me those delights on high? > > Echo: I. > Thou tarriest, while I die, > > And fall to nothing: thou dost reign, > > And rule on high, > > While I remain > > In bitter grief: yet I am styl'd > > Thy child. > Then let wrath remove; > > Love will do the deed: > > For with love > > Stony hearts will bleed. > Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, > > Guilty of dust and sin. > > But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack > > From my first entrance in, > > Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, > > If I lacked any thing. > I gave to Hope a watch of mine; but he > > An Anchor gave to me. > Religion stands on tip-toe in our land, > > Ready to pass to the American strand. > Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, > > Which my God feels as blood, but I as wine. > Do not beguile my heart, > > Because thou art > > My power and wisdom. Put me not to shame, > > Because I am > > Thy clay that weeps, thy dust that calls. > And now in age I bud again, > > After so many deaths I live and write; > > I once more smell the dew and rain, > > And relish versing: O my only light, > > It cannot be > > That I am he > > On whom thy tempests fell all night. > Throw away thy rod, > > Throw away thy wrath: > > O my God, > > Take the gentle path. > A servant with this clause > > Makes drudgery divine: > > Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, > > Makes that and th' action fine. > He would adore my gifts instead of me, > > And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: > > So both should losers be. > You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: > > So I did sit and eat. > Grief melts away > > Like snow in May, > > As if there were no such cold thing. > With sick and famish'd eyes, > > With doubling knees and weary bones, > > To thee my cries, > > To thee my groans, > > To thee my sighs, my tears ascend: > > No end?My throat, my soul is hoarse; > > My heart is wither'd like a ground > > Which thou dost curse. > > My thoughts turn round, > > And make me giddy; Lord, I fall, > > Yet call. > Nothing wears clothes, but Man; nothing doth need > > But he to wear them. > Man is one world, and hath > > Another to attend him. > Drink not the third glass, which thou canst not tame, > > When once it is within thee. > I got me flowers to strew Thy way, > > I got me boughs off many a tree: > > But Thou wast up by break of day, > > And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. > Prayer the church’s banquet, angel’s age, > > God’s breath in man returning to his birth, > > The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, > > The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth > > Engine against th’ Almighty, sinner’s tow’r, > > Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, > > The six-days world transposing in an hour, > > A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; > > Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, > > Exalted manna, gladness of the best, > > Heaven in ordinary, man well drest, > > The milky way, the bird of Paradise, > > Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul’s blood, > > The land of spices; something understood. > Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, > > Though foolishly he lost the same, > > Decaying more and more, > > Till he became > > Most poor: > > With thee > > O let me rise > > As larks, harmoniously, > > And sing this day thy victories: > > Then shall the fall further the flight in me. > Bibles laid open, millions of surprises. > Who goes to bed and does not pray, > > Maketh two nights to every day. > Wit's an unruly engine, wildly striking > > Sometimes a friend, sometimes the engineer. > By no means run in debt: take thine own measure. > > Who cannot live on twenty pound a year, > > Cannot on forty. > Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing, > > My God and King. > Who says that fictions only and false hair > > Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? > > Is all good structure in a winding stair? > Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, > > A box where sweets compacted lie. > The worst speak something good; if all want sense, > > God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence. > Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie: > > A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. > My tender age in sorrow did begin: > > And still with sicknesses and shame > > Thou didst so punish sin, > > That I became > > Most thin. > > With thee > > Let me combine, > > And feel this day thy victory: > > For, If I imp my wing on thine, > > Affliction shall advance the flight in me > Only a sweet and virtuous soul, > > Like season'd timber, never gives; > > But though the whole world turn to coal, > > Then chiefly lives. > Wouldst thou both eat thy cake and have it? > Chase brave employment with a naked sword > > Throughout the world. > To write a verse or two is all the praise > > That I can raise. > A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears, > > Made of a heart, and cemented with tears; > > Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; > > No workman's tool hath touch'd the same. > > A HEART alone > > Is such a stone > > As nothing but > > Thy pow'r doth cut. > > Wherefore each part > > Of my hard heart > > Meets in this frame, > > To praise thy name. > > That if I chance to hold my peace, > > These stones to praise thee may not cease. > > O let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine, > > And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine. > Man is no star, but a quick coal > > Of mortal fire: > > Who blows it not, nor doth control > > A faint desire, > > Lets his own ashes choke his soul. > Like summer friends, > > Flies of estate and sunneshine. > My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds > > Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. > Be useful where thou livest. > Be calm in arguing: for fierceness makes > > Error a fault, and truth discourtesy. > By all means use sometimes to be alone. > Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust, > > Thy hands made both, and I am there; > > Thy power and love, my love and trust > > Make one place ev'ry where. > A verse may finde him,who a sermon flies > > And turns delight into a sacrifice. > Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call: > > And though my hard heart scare to thee can groan, > > Remember that thou once didst write in stone. > Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, > > The bridal of the earth and sky; > > The dew shall weep thy fall tonight, > > For thou must die. > I cannot skill of these thy ways. > > Lord, thou didst make me, yet thou woundest me; > > Lord, thou dost wound me, yet thou dost relieve me: > > Lord, thou relievest, yet I die by thee: > > Lord, thou dost kill me, yet thou dost reprieve me.But when I mark my life and praise, > > Thy justice me most fitly praise: > > For, I do praise thee, yet I praise thee not: > > My prayers mean thee, yet my prayers stray: > > I would do well, yet sin the hand hath got: > > My soul doth love thee, yet it loves delay. > > I cannot skill of these my ways. > Man is God's image; but a poor man is > > Christ's stamp to boot: both images regard. > Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime, > > 'Tis angels' music.