Saturday, July 18, 2009

Poetry for the Catholic Writer

Alas, it is so. George Herbert wasn't Catholic. I still like his poetry, especially "The Flower" - and I'm thinking of it this weekend in particular. I'm another year older - and I think 45 is a great age to renew my desire to serve God through writing. Catholic first. Writer second. And so, we write of faith, moving always onward and upward. . .

lines from "The Flower"

How Fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are 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 away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel’d
Could have recover’d greennesse?

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 onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy
tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.

(1633) George Herbert


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