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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396352" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Flower</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean <br>Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; <br>To which, besides their own demean, <br>The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring. <br>Grief melts away <br>Like snow in May, <br>As if there were no such cold thing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who would have thought my shrivl'd heart <br>Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone <br>Quite under ground; as flowers depart <br>To see their mother-root, when they have blown; <br>Where they together <br>All the hard weather <br>Dead to the world, keep house unknown. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">These are thy wonders, Lord of power, <br>Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell <br>And up to heaven in an hour; <br>Making a chiming of a passing-bell. <br>We say amiss, <br>This or that is: <br>Thy word is all, if we could spell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O that I once past changing were, <br>Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither! <br>Many a spring I shoot up fair, <br>Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither: <br>Nor doth my flower <br>Want a spring-shower, <br>My sins and I joining together: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But while I grow in a straight line, <br>Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, <br>Thy anger comes, and I decline: <br>What frost to that? what pole is not the zone, <br>Where all things burn, <br>When thou dost turn, <br>And the least frown of thine is shown? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now in age I bud again, <br>After so many deaths I live and write; <br>I once more smell the dew and rain, <br>And relish versing: O my only light, <br>It cannot be <br>That I am her <br>On whom thy tempests fell all night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">These are thy wonders, Lord of love, <br>To make us see we are but flowers that glide: <br>Which when we once can find and prove, <br>Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. <br>Who would be more, <br>Swelling through store, <br>Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Herbert">George Herbert</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396352" data-title="The Flower de George Herbert" data-description="How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; 
To which, besides their own demean, 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring. 
Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 
As if there were no such cold thi..."></div>
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