|
|
To God: On His Sickness.
By Robert Herrick
What though my harp and viol be
Both hung upon the willow tree?
What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie number'd with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring; though now a wither'd flower.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 332 times.
|
|
