George Herbert (1593–1633)

I GOT me flowers to strew Thy way;

I got me boughs off many a tree;

But thou wast up by break of day,

And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

The sun arising in the east,—

Though he give light, and the east perfume;

If they should offer to contest

With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavor?

We count three hundred,—but we miss:

There is but one, and that one ever.