Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sence! <br />Thou art thine own distemper and offence. <br />Imagine then, that sick unwholsom steam <br />Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream. <br />Nor is it strange, when we in charnells dwell, <br />That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell. <br />Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light <br />Burns in the day, and smothers in the night. <br />And as you see the dying taper waste, <br />By such degrees does he to darkness haste. <br />Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies lamps <br />Blinded by age, or choakt with mortall damps, <br />Now faint and dim and sickly 'gin to wink, <br />And in their hollow sockets lowly sink; <br />When all our vital fires ceasing to burn, <br />Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our Urn: <br />God will restore those fallen lights again, <br />And kindle them to an Eternal flame.<br /><br />Henry King<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/being-waked-out-of-my-sleep-by-a-snuff-of-candle-which-offended-me-i-thus-thought/
