Frailty

Frailty
by George Herbert

LORD, in my silence how do I despise
What upon trust
Is styled, honour, riches, or fair eyes;But is—fair dust!
I surname them gilded clay,
Dear earth, fine grass or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.
But when I view abroad both regiments,
The world's, and Thine;
Thine clad with simpleness, and sad events;The other fine,
Full of glory and gay weeds,
Brave language, braver deeds:
That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,
And prick mine eyes.
O brook not this, lest if what even now
My foot doth tread,
Affront those joys, wherewith Thou didst endow,
And long since wed
My poor soul, e'en sick of love;
It may a Babel prove,
Commodious to conquer heaven and Thee
Planted in me.

0 comments:

Post a Comment