George Herbert (1593–1633)

SWEET Day! so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky,

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night—

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry 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 seasoned timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.