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