






GEORGE HERBERT. 
Making a chiming of a passing bell, 
We say amiss 
This or that is : 
Thy word is all ; if we could spell. 






O that I once past changing were, 
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither ! 
Many a Spring I shoot up fair, 
Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither : 
Nor doth my flower 
Want a spring-shower, 
My sins and I joining together. 



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, 





When 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 tempests fell 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 

