Classic Poem

As often as some where before my Feet
I with a fine, rare, and fair Object meet,
I shut my Outward Eyes,
And bid my Inward rise
To Him, who made, and does uphold that Thing
So that my heart (whilst I His praises sing,)
To the Creator cleaves
And that quaint Creature leaves.
Concluding thus: If this, which is but vain,
Appears to men so handsom, deft and clean,
How beautiful must he
Pure, Bright, and Glorious be
Whose wondrous works I see.