And the least frown of thine is shown?
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 can not be,
That I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell all night!
These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
To make us see we are but flow’rs that glide;