Change - Poem by George Wither
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day,
These now by me as they have been
Shall never more be heard or seen,
But what I once enjoyed in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus,
So little hold of them have we;
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment vanished be:
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise;
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.
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