Isn't she lovely, ‘the Mistress’?
    With her wide-apart grey-green eyes,
The droop of her lips and, when she smiles,
    Her glance of amused surprise?

How nonchalantly she wears her clothes,
    How expensive they are as well!
And the sound of her voice is as soft and deep
    As the Christ Church tenor bell.

But why do I call her ‘the Mistress’
    Who know not her way of life?
Because she has more of a cared-for air
    Than many a legal wife.

How elegantly she swings along
    In the vapoury incense veil;
The angel choir must pause in song
    When she kneels at the altar rail.

The parson said that we shouldn't stare
    Around when we come to church,
Or the Unknown God we are seeking
    May forever elude our search.

But I hope that the preacher will not think
    It unorthodox and odd
If I add that I glimpse in ‘the Mistress’
    A hint of the Unknown God.

[This is about a lady I see on Sunday mornings in a London church. JB]