I dreamt, last night, Thou didst transfuse Oyle from Thy Jarre, into my creuze; And powring still, Thy wealthy store, The vessell full, did then run ore: Me thought, I did Thy bounty chide, To see the waste; but 'twas repli'd By Thee, Deare God, God gives man seed Oft-times for wast, as for his need. Then I co'd say, that house is bare, That has not bread, and some to spare. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONLY A WOMAN by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK MY FORE-ELDERS by WILLIAM BARNES STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY by BERNARD BARTON THE THREE WOES by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE VOLUNTEER (1914-1919) by ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE ALMANZOR & ALMAHIDE, OR THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN |