The Bad Season Makes the Poet Sad

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 The Bad Season Makes the Poet Sad Dull to myself, and almost dead to these My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; Lost to all music now, since everything Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to th’ heart, and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desp’rate cure…. [Read More]

The White Island, or Place of the Blest

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 The White Island, or Place of the Blest In this world, the isle of dreams,       While we sit by sorrow’s streams,       Tears and terrors are our themes                      Reciting:         But when once from hence we fly,       More and more approaching nigh              Unto young eternity,                      Uniting:          In that whiter… [Read More]

His Prayer for Absolution

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 His Prayer for Absolution For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and word, That’s not inlaid with Thee, my Lord, Forgive me, God, and blot each line Out of my book, that is not Thine. But if, ‘mongst all, Thou find’st here one Worthy… [Read More]

Discontents in Devon

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 Discontents in Devon More discontents I never had          Since I was born, than here; Where I have been, and still am, sad,          In this dull Devonshire. Yet justly too I must confess,          I ne’er invented such Ennobled numbers for the press,          Than where I loath’d so much.  

Corinna’s going a Maying

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 Corinna’s going a Maying Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne Upon her wings presents the god unshorne.                      See how Aurora throwes her faire                      Fresh-quilted colours through the aire:                      Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see                      The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree. Each Flower has wept, and bow’d toward… [Read More]

Another Grace for a Child

Robert Herrick 1591–1674 Another Grace for a Child Here a little child I stand Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on us all. Amen.