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 th’ 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 endeavour?

We count three hundred, but we miss:

There is but one, and that one ever.