An excerpt from "The Flower" by George Herbert

     "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*       *(slip silently away)
      Which when we once can find and prove,*      *(experience)
Thou hast a garden for us where to hide;
                     Who would be more,
                      Swelling through store,
       Forfeit their Paradise by their pride."