And the least frown of thine is shown? 35
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only Light,
It cannot be 40
That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell at night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide: