IN CCELO QUIES 



But while I grow in a straight line, 

 Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were mine own, 



Thy anger comes and I decline; 

 What frost to that? What pole is not the zone 

 Where all things burn, 

 WTien thou dost turn, 

 And the least frown of Thine is shown? 



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: O my only light! 

 It cannot be 

 That I am he 

 On whom Thy tempest befell all night. 



These are Thy wonders, Lord of love, 

 To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; 

 Which when we once can find and prove, 

 Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 

 Who would be more 

 Travelling through store, 

 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 

 GEORGE HERBERT. 



The Flower. 



[185] 



