Not all thy flushing suns are set, <br />Herrick, as yet ; <br />Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere <br />Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere. <br />Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest <br />As dead within the west ; <br />Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east. <br /> <br />Alas ! for me, that I have lost <br />E'en all almost ; <br />Sunk is my sight, set is my sun, <br />And all the loom of life undone : <br />The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wall <br />Whereon my vine did crawl, <br />Now, now blown down ; needs must the old stock fall. <br /> <br />Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive, <br />In death I thrive : <br />And like a phoenix re-aspire <br />From out my nard and fun'ral fire ; <br />And as I prune my feathered youth, so I <br />Do mar'l how I could die <br />When I had thee, my chief preserver, by. <br /> <br />I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand <br />Which makes me stand <br />Now as I do, and but for thee <br />I must confess I could not be. <br />The debt is paid ; for he who doth resign <br />Thanks to the gen'rous vine <br />Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.<br /><br />Robert Herrick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-ode-to-master-endymion-porter-upon-his-brothe/
