1How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
2Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
3 To which, besides their own demean,
4The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
5 Grief melts away
6 Like snow in May,
7 As if there were no such cold thing.
8 Who would have thought my shriveled heart
9Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
10 Quite underground; as flowers depart
11To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
12 Where they together
13 All the hard weather,
14 Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
15 These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
16Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
17 And up to heaven in an hour;
18Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
19 We say amiss
20 This or that is:
21 Thy word is all, if we could spell.
22 Oh that I once past changing were,
23Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
24 Many a spring I shoot up fair,
25Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
26 Nor doth my flower
27 Want a spring shower,
28 My sins and I joining together.
29 But while I grow in a straight line,
30Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
31 Thy anger comes, and I decline:
32What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
33 Where all things burn,
34 When thou dost turn,
35 And the least frown of thine is shown?
36 And now in age I bud again,
37After so many deaths I live and write;
38 I once more smell the dew and rain,
39And relish versing. Oh, my only light,
40 It cannot be
41 That I am he
42 On whom thy tempests fell all night.
43 These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
44To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
45 Which when we once can find and prove,
46Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
47 Who would be more,
48 Swelling through store,
49 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
1How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
2Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
3 To which, besides their own demean,
4The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
5 Grief melts away
6 Like snow in May,
7 As if there were no such cold thing.
8 Who would have thought my shriveled heart
9Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
10 Quite underground; as flowers depart
11To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
12 Where they together
13 All the hard weather,
14 Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
15 These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
16Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
17 And up to heaven in an hour;
18Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
19 We say amiss
20 This or that is:
21 Thy word is all, if we could spell.
22 Oh that I once past changing were,
23Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
24 Many a spring I shoot up fair,
25Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
26 Nor doth my flower
27 Want a spring shower,
28 My sins and I joining together.
29 But while I grow in a straight line,
30Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
31 Thy anger comes, and I decline:
32What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
33 Where all things burn,
34 When thou dost turn,
35 And the least frown of thine is shown?
36 And now in age I bud again,
37After so many deaths I live and write;
38 I once more smell the dew and rain,
39And relish versing. Oh, my only light,
40 It cannot be
41 That I am he
42 On whom thy tempests fell all night.
43 These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
44To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
45 Which when we once can find and prove,
46Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
47 Who would be more,
48 Swelling through store,
49 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! even 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 shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite underground;
as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
Oh that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring shower,
My sins and I joining together.
But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
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. Oh, my only light,
It cannot 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 flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
A Brief Biography — Visit the Poetry Foundation to learn more about Herbert's life and work.
An Appreciation — Read contemporary poet Wendy Cope's essay on what George Herbert's work means to her.
Herbert's "Temple" — Learn more about "The Temple," the posthumous collection in which "The Flower" first appeared.
The Poem Aloud — Listen to Professor Iain McGilchrist reading the poem aloud and discussing what it means to him.
The Herbert Museum — Visit a website dedicated to Herbert and the church where he lived and worked.