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letra de the flower - alec roth

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 thеy have blown
where thеy together
all the hard weather
dead to the world, keep house unknown

these are thy wonders, lord of power
k!lling and quickening, bringing down to h-ll
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

- alec roth

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