A Hymn

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O fly, my Soul! What hangs upon
 Thy drooping wings,
 And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things?

The Sun is now i’ the east: each shade
 As he doth rise
 Is shorter made,
That earth may lessen to our eyes.

O be not careless then and play
 Until the Star of Peace
Hide all his beams in dark recess!
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase.

© James Shirley