A quiet morning here in Amherst. A thin layer of snow ripples the rough ground. The rhododendron leaves are shriveled and limp. A squirrel skitters through the canopy of white pines and, below, the small pond is layered with grey-white ice. I'm the only one up. I've started the coffee, dropped a couple of pieces into place in the giant community jigsaw puzzle. I've got my tiny volume of George Herbert's poems alongside me, and here is one I've just read for the first time. I send it to you as a small gift of affection and hope and honor for whatever it is that reminds us to be humane.

A Wreath

George Herbert

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Than deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,
Know them and practise them: then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.