"A Pastor Of Souls, A Poet, and A Priest In Your Temple"

The commemoration of George Herbert (1593-1633), which I duly observe each February 27, my birthday, got lost in the shuffle this year since February 27 was a Sunday. Nevertheless, I feel at least a token nod should be given him, and I can think of no better way than to share with you one of my very favorite poems of his: Love III.

 Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";

Love said, "You shall be he."

"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee."

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"

"My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."

So I did sit and eat.