Richard Crashaw (c. 1613–1649)

WOULD’ST see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile

Age? would’st see December smile?

Would’st see nests of new roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow?

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering

Winter’s self into a Spring?

In sum, would’st see a man that can

Live to be old, and still a man?

Whose latest and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;

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;—

This rare one, reader, would’st thou see?

Hark hither!—and thyself be he.