HOW rich, O Lord, how fresh Thy visits are ! 
‘Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung,
Sullied with dust and mud ;
Each snarling blast shot through me, and did share
Their youth and beauty ; cold showers nipt, and wrung
Their spiciness and blood ;
But since Thou didst in one sweet glance survey
Their sad decays, I flourish, and once more
Breathe all perfumes and spice ;
I smell a dew like myrrh, and all the day
Wear in my bosom a full sun ; such store
Hath one beam from Thy eyes.
But, ah, my God ! what fruit hast Thou of this
What one poor leaf did ever I yet fall
To wait upon Thy wreath ?
Thus Thou all day a thankless weed dost dress,
And when Th’ hast done, a stench, or fog is all
The odour I bequeath.