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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409321" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Unprofitableness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409321" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are! <br>'Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung <br>Sullied with dust and mud; <br>Each snarling blast shot through me, and did share <br>Their youth, and beauty, cold showers nipt, and wrung <br>Their spiciness and blood; <br>But since thou didst in one sweet glance survey <br>Their sad decays, I flourish, and once more <br>Breath all perfumes, and spice; <br>I smell a dew like myrrh, and all the day <br>Wear in my bosom a full sun; such store <br>Hath one beam from thy eyes. <br>But, ah, my God! what fruit hast thou of this? <br>What one poor leaf did ever I yet fall <br>To wait upon thy wreath? <br>Thus thou all day a thankless weed dost dress, <br>And when th'hast done, a stench or fog is all <br>The odor I bequeath.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Henry+Vaughan">Henry Vaughan</a></strong></div>

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