UNPROFITABLENESS. by Henry Vaughan 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. Source: Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I. E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 104. to Works of Henry Vaughan Site copyright ©1996-2000 Anniina Jokinen. All Rights Reserved. Created by Anniina Jokinen on October 8, 2000. Background by the kind permission of Gini Schmitz.