All Poems

/ page 2866 of 3210 /

Order by :

The Vine

© Robert Herrick

I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.

A Christmas Carol, Sung to the King in the Presence at White-Hall

© Robert Herrick

Voice 1:
Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honor to this Day,
That sees December turn'd to May.

Upon Her Feet

© Robert Herrick

Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at Bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.

Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
With leaves and moss-work for to cover me;
And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister!
For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:
HERE, HERE THE TOMB OF ROBIN HERRICK IS!

His Content In The Country

© Robert Herrick

HERE, Here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Prue and me:

Truth And Error

© Robert Herrick

Twixt truth and error, there's this difference known
Error is fruitful, truth is only one.

No Pains, No Gains

© Robert Herrick

If little labour, little are our gains;
Man's fortunes are according to his pains.

To Heaven

© Robert Herrick

Open thy gates
To him who weeping waits,
And might come in,
But that held back by sin.

The White Island:or Place Of The Blest

© Robert Herrick

In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
While we sit by sorrow's streams,
Tears and terrors are our themes,
Reciting:

His Poetry His Pillar

© Robert Herrick

Only a little more
I have to write:
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.

His Loss

© Robert Herrick

All has been plunder'd from me but my wit:
Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.

Cock-crow

© Robert Herrick

Bell-man of night, if I about shall go
For to deny my Master, do thou crow!
Thou stop'st Saint Peter in the midst of sin;
Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin;
Better it is, premonish'd, for to shun
A sin, than fall to weeping when 'tis done.

To Youth

© Robert Herrick

Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may;
The morrow's life too late is; Live to-day.

The Country Life:

© Robert Herrick

TO THE HONOURED MR ENDYMION PORTER, GROOM OF
THE BED-CHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTYSweet country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be

Cherry Ripe

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come, and buy:
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer, there

Soft Music

The mellow touch of music most doth wound
The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

A Hymn To Love

I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That, let her lay
On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of WestmorelandCome, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.

Eternity

O years! and age! farewell:
Behold I go,
Where I do know
Infinity to dwell.

The Bubble: A Song

To my revenge, and to her desperate fears,
Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears!
In the wild air, when thou hast roll'd about,
And, like a blasting planet, found her out;