During a time of leave-taking

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 not compare,

For all they either painted are,

Or else undrest.

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.

George Herbert, 1593-1633