Sunday Poetry

Frailtie.

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 guilded clay,
Deare earth, fine grasse or hay;

In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.
But when I view abroad both Regiments;
The worlds, and thine:
Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events;
The other fine,
Full of glorie 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 did tread,

Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow
And long since wed My poore soul, ev’n sick of love:
It may a Babel prove
Commodious to conquer heav’n and thee
Planted in me.

George Herbert, 1633.