Unprofitableness

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

Breath 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 odor I bequeath.