Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tirèd pilgrims limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!
Ever blooming are the joys of heavens high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
O Come Quickly!
Thomas Campion
Suggested Poems
Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.