by Henry Vaughan

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 nipt, 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 myrrh, 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.

Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 104.

Backto Works of Henry Vaughan

Site copyright ©1996-2000 Anniina Jokinen. All Rights Reserved.
Created by Anniina Jokinen on October 8, 2000.

Background by the kind permission of Gini Schmitz.