The Poetry Corner

His Dream.

By Robert Herrick

I dreamt, last night, Thou didst transfuse Oil from Thy jar into my cruse; And pouring still Thy wealthy store, The vessel full did then run o'er; Methought I did Thy bounty chide To see the waste; but 'twas replied By Thee, dear God, God gives man seed Ofttimes for waste, as for his need. Then I could say that house is bare That has not bread and some to spare.