Unprofitableness

How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are! 'Twas but just now my bleak leaves hopeless hung Sullied with dust and mud; Each snarling blast shot through me, and did share Their youth, and beauty, cold showers nipt, and wrung Their spiciness and blood; But since thou didst in one sweet glance survey Their sad decays, I flourish, and once more Breath all perfumes, and spice; I smell a dew like myrrh, and all the day Wear in my bosom a full sun; such store Hath one beam from thy eyes. But, ah, my God! what fruit hast thou of this? What one poor leaf did ever I yet fall To wait upon thy wreath? Thus thou all day a thankless weed dost dress, And when th'hast done, a stench or fog is all The odor I bequeath.