THE FLOWER GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633)<\/p>\n
How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean<\/p>\n
Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;<\/p>\n
To which, besides their own demean,<\/p>\n
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.<\/p>\n
Grief melts away<\/p>\n
Like snow in May,<\/p>\n
As if there were no such cold thing.<\/p>\n
Who would have thought my shriveled heart<\/p>\n
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone<\/p>\n
Quite underground; as flowers depart<\/p>\n
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,<\/p>\n
Where they together<\/p>\n
All the hard weather,<\/p>\n
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.<\/p>\n
These are thy wonders, Lord of power,<\/p>\n
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell<\/p>\n
And up to heaven in an hour;<\/p>\n
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.<\/p>\n
We say amiss<\/p>\n
This or that is:<\/p>\n
Thy word is all, if we could spell.<\/p>\n
Oh that I once past changing were,<\/p>\n
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!<\/p>\n
Many a spring I shoot up fair,<\/p>\n
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;<\/p>\n
Nor doth my flower<\/p>\n
Want a spring shower,<\/p>\n
My sins and I joining together.<\/p>\n
But while I grow in a straight line,<\/p>\n
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,<\/p>\n
Thy anger comes, and I decline:<\/p>\n
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone<\/p>\n
Where all things burn,<\/p>\n
When thou dost turn,<\/p>\n
And the least frown of thine is shown?<\/p>\n
And now in age I bud again,<\/p>\n
After so many deaths I live and write;<\/p>\n
I once more smell the dew and rain,<\/p>\n
And relish versing. Oh, my only light,<\/p>\n
It cannot be<\/p>\n
That I am he<\/p>\n
On whom thy tempests fell all night.<\/p>\n
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,<\/p>\n
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;<\/p>\n
Which when we once can find and prove,<\/p>\n
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;<\/p>\n
Who would be more,<\/p>\n
Swelling through store,<\/p>\n
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
THE FLOWER GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633) How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my … Continue reading Noon Prayer with George Herbert<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[16],"tags":[32316],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/35820"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=35820"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/35820\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":35821,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/35820\/revisions\/35821"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=35820"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=35820"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/communio.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=35820"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}