The British Church

By George Herbert 1593–1633 George Herbert

I joy, dear mother, when I view

Thy perfect lineaments, and hue

Both sweet and bright.

Beauty in thee takes up her place,

And dates her letters from thy face,

When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit array,

Neither too mean nor yet too gay,

Shows who is best.

Outlandish looks may not compare,

For all they either painted are,

Or else undress'd.

She on the hills which wantonly

Allureth all, in hope to be

By her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines,

That ev'n her face by kissing shines,

For her reward.

She in the valley is so shy

Of dressing, that her hair doth lie

About her ears;

While she avoids her neighbour's pride,

She wholly goes on th' other side,

And nothing wears.

But, dearest mother, what those miss,

The mean, thy praise and glory is

And long may be.

Blessed be God, whose love it was

To double-moat thee with his grace,

And none but thee.

Biography

Nestled somewhere within the Age of Shakespeare and the Age of Milton is George Herbert. There is no Age of Herbert: he did not consciously fashion an expansive literary career for himself, and his characteristic gestures, insofar as these can be gleaned from his poems and other writings, tend to be careful self-scrutiny rather than rhetorical pronouncement; local involvement rather than broad social engagement; and complex, . . .

Continue reading this biography