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 myrhh, and all the day
Wear in my bosom a full sun; such store
Hath one beam from Thy eyes.
~Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
