Virtue   ~  George Herbert (1593-1633)

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridall 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 dayes and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie; 
My musick shows ye have your closes, 
                                    And all must die. 
Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, 
Like season’d timber, never gives; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
                                    Then chiefly lives.