The Flower
How fresh, O Lord , how sweet and clean
Are they returns! ev' as the flower in springs,
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring:
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold things.
Are they returns! ev' as the flower in springs,
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring:
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold things.