How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are! 'Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung Sullied with dust and mud; Each snarling blast shot through me, and did share Their youth and beauty, cold showers nipped and wrung Their spiciness and blood; But since thou didst in one sweet glance survey Their sad decays, I flourish, and once more Breathe all perfumes and spice; I smell a dew like @3myrrh@1, and all the day Wear in my bosom a full Sun; such store Hath one beam from thy eyes. But, ah, my God! what fruit hast thou of this? What one poor leaf did ever I yet fall To wait upon thy wreath? Thus thou all day a thankless weed dost dress, And when th' hast done, a stench, or fog is all The odour I bequeath. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNTRY SUMMER by LEONIE ADAMS THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN by THOMAS HARDY THE HONEYSUCKLE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 14 by ALFRED TENNYSON LETTY'S GLOBE by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER SATURDAY IN Y' HOLY WEEK by JOSEPH BEAUMONT FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A NIGHT-SCENE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |