On the Eve of New Year’s Eve

From “The Flower,” by George Herbert

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: O, my only Light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

You thought you were doing your best.
Be that as it may, you’re different today
after scores of years of living

in this singular body, this rescued soul.
Dedicate yourself as never before.
Sweep clean the house and prepare it to be

an altar, a table, where God comes down
where the first is last
and the last is best withal.

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