Friday, 5 January 2018
The poems of Robert Southwell
While we live we conquer, nor shall we be less victorious if we die.
Take now your rest in the shade;
And open your mouths to draw in breath,
So that when your hour comes,
You too may go down into the sun-scorched arena.
Rue not my death. Rejoice at my repose;
It was no death to me but to my woe;
The bud was opened to let out the rose,
The chain was loosed to let the captive go.
In plaints I pass the length of lingering days;
Free would my soul from mortal body fly;
And tread the track of death’s desired ways.