When with a serious musing I behold <br />The grateful and obsequious marigold, <br />How duly, ev'ry morning, she displays <br />Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays; <br />How she observes him in his daily walk, <br />Still bending towards him her tender stalk; <br />How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, <br />Bedew'd, as 'twere, with tears, till he returns; <br />And how she veils her flow'rs when he is gone, <br />As if she scorned to be looked on <br />By an inferior eye, or did contemn <br />To wait upon a meaner light than him; <br />When this I meditate, methinks the flowers <br />Have spirits far more generous than ours, <br />And give us fair examples to despise <br />The servile fawnings and idolatries <br />Wherewith we court these earthly things below, <br />Which merit not the service we bestow. <br /> <br />But, O my God! though groveling I appear <br />Upon the ground (and have a rooting here <br />Which hales me downward) yet in my desire <br />To that which is above me I aspire; <br />And all my best affections I profess <br />To Him that is the sun of righteousness. <br />Oh, keep the morning of His incarnation, <br />The burning noontide of His bitter passion, <br />The night of His descending, and the height <br />Of His ascension ever in my sight, <br />That imitating Him in what I may, <br />I never follow an inferior way.<br /><br />George Wither<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-marigold/
