POETRY: Confession (O What A Cunning Guest) by George Herbert

O what a cunning guest Is this same grief! within my heart I made Closets; and in them many a chest; And, like a master in my trade, In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till: Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will. No screw, no piercer can Into a piece of timber work and wind, As God’s afflictions into man, When he a torture hath designed. They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts; And fall, like rheums, upon the tend’rest parts. We are the earth; and they, Like moles within us, heave, and cast about: And till they foot and clutch their prey, They never cool, much less give out. No smith can make such locks but they have keys: Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-ways. Only an open breast Doth shut them out, so that they cannot enter; Or, if they enter, cannot rest, But quickly seek some new adventure. Smooth open hearts no fast’ning have; but fiction Doth give a hold and handle to affliction. Wherefore my faults and sins, Lord, I acknowledge; take thy plagues away: For since confession pardon wins, I challenge here the brightest day, The clearest diamond: [...]