You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and cleanAre thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring;To which, besides their own demean,The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.Grief melts awayLike snow in May,As if there were no such cold thing.Who would have thought my shrivel'd heartCould have recover'd greennesse? It was goneQuite under ground; as flowers depart