From The Flower
by George Herbert (1593-1633) 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
…Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d 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.