A Contemplation Upon Flowers

Brave flowers—that I could gallant it like you,

And be as little vain!

You come abroad, and make a harmless show,

And to your beds of earth again.

You are not proud: you know your birth:

For your embroider'd garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I

Would have it ever Spring:

My fate would know no Winter, never die,

Nor think of such a thing.

O that I could my bed of earth but view

And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear,

But rather to take truce!

How often have I seen you at a bier,

And there look fresh and spruce!