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.