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What I have treasur’d in my memorie ! Since, if my soul make even with the week, Each seventh note by right is due to thee. I finde there quarries of pil’d vanities, But shreds of holinesse, that dare not venture To shew their face, since crosse to thy decrees : There the circumference earth is, heav’n the centre. In so much dregs the quintessence is small : The spirit and good extract of my heart Comes to about the many hundredth part. Yet, Lord, restore thine image, heare my call : And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone, Remember that thou once didst write in stone. |
Source:
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 44.
 | to Works of George Herbert |
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Created by Anniina Jokinen on July 30, 2001.
