As your hours do, and dry
Like to the rain,
Or as the pearls of dew.
Now I am here, what thou wilt do for me,
None of my books will show;
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For sure I then should grow
To fruit or shade: at least some bird might trust
Her household to me, and I should be just.—George Herbert.
Thou who hast given me eyes to see