As a kind of follow-up to my post on 'O Oriens', and as appropriate for the Winter Solstice, this is George Herbert's 'The Sonne'. Metaphysical poets liked this particular felicity of the English language as much as their Anglo-Saxon forebears did.
Let forrain nations of their language boast,
What fine varietie each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast:
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly doe we give one onely name
To parents issue and the sunnes bright starre!
A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitfull flame
Chasing the fathers dimnesse, carri’d farre
From the first man in th’ East, to fresh and new
Western discov’ries of posteritie.
So in one word our Lords humilitie
We turn upon him in a sense most true:
For what Christ once in humblenesse began,
We him in glorie call, The Sonne of Man.