The Marigold

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.  When with a serious musing I behold
 The grateful and obsequious marigold,
 How duly, ev'ry morning, she displays
 Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
 How she observes him in his daily walk,
 Still bending towards him her tender stalk;
 How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
 Bedew'd, as 'twere, with tears, till he returns;
 And how she veils her flow'rs when he is gone,
  As if she scorned to be looked on
  By an inferior eye, or did contemn
  To wait upon a meaner light than him;
  When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
  Have spirits far more generous than ours,
  And give us fair examples to despise
  The servile fawnings and idolatries
  Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
  Which merit not the service we bestow.

 But, O my God! though groveling I appear
  Upon the ground (and have a rooting here
  Which hales me downward) yet in my desire
  To that which is above me I aspire;
  And all my best affections I profess
  To Him that is the sun of righteousness.
  Oh, keep the morning of His incarnation,
  The burning noontide of His bitter passion,
  The night of His descending, and the height
  Of His ascension ever in my sight,
  That imitating Him in what I may,
  I never follow an inferior way.

© George Wither