The Flower

The Flower

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers of spring; To which, beside their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such thing. Who would have thought my...
Reborn

Reborn

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing. Oh my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.   George Herbert (1593-1633). The...
Winged Life

Winged Life

My tender Age in sorrow did begin And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin That I became Most thin.   With thee Let me combine, And feel this day thy victory: For if I imp (graft) my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight  in me....