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Poetry
Chaikhana
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About Henry VaughanTimeline (1621 - 1695) |
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Original Language |
Unprofitableness
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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.
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Ivan
M. Granger's original poetry, stories and commentaries are Copyright ©
2002 - 2008 by Ivan M. Granger.
All other material is copyrighted by the respective authors, translators and/or
publishers.