The Flower

How fresh, O 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 is there were no such cold thing.

     Poem by George Herbert

I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post to my Mom in heaven.
I lost my Mom to cancer and I miss her.