Vertue Poem By George Herbert

Vertue

   - By George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and skie; 

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 

                            For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: 

Thy root is ever in its grave, 

                             And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie: 

My music shows ye have your closes, 

                                  And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 

Like season'd timber, never gives; 

But though the whole world turn to coal, 

                                      Then chiefly lives.