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Best Famous Robert Herrick Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Herrick poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Herrick poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Herrick poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Robert Herrick poems.

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Written by Robert Herrick | |

To Find God

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind?
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixed in that wat'ry theater,
And taste thou them as saltless there,
As in their channel first they were.
Tell me the people that do keep Within the kingdoms of the deep; Or fetch me back that cloud again, Beshivered into seeds of rain.
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears Of corn, when summer shakes his ears; Show me that world of stars, and whence They noiseless spill their influence.
This if thou canst; then show me Him That rides the glorious cherubim.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Give me a cell
To dwell,
Where no foot hath
A path;
There will I spend,
And end,
My wearied years
In tears.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 ? or John Fletcher.
ORPHEUS with his lute made trees And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

More great poems below...

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 often it is the only
between you and
no drink, no woman's love, no wealth can match it.
nothing can save you except writing.
it keeps the walls from failing.
the hordes from closing in.
it blasts the darkness.
writing is the ultimate psychiatrist, the kindliest god of all the gods.
writing stalks death.
it knows no quit.
and writing laughs at itself, at pain.
it is the last expectation, the last explanation.
that's what it is.
from blank gun silencer - 1991

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
But here awhile, to languish and decay;
Like to these garden glories, which here be
The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:
With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,
Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's
Soft and soul-melting murmurings,
Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
A Robin-red-breast; who at view,
Not seeing her at all to stir,
Brought leaves and moss to cover her:
But while he, perking, there did pry
About the arch of either eye,
The lid began to let out day,--
At which poor Robin flew away;
And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved,
He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.

Written by Robert Herrick | |

Upon Prew His Maid

 In this little Urne is laid
Prewdence Baldwin (once my maid)
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Virgins promised when I died,
That they would each primrose-tide
Duly, morn and evening, come,
And with flowers dress my tomb.
--Having promised, pay your debts Maids, and here strew violets.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 That flow of gallants which approach
To kiss thy hand from out the coach;
That fleet of lackeys which do run
Before thy swift postilion;
Those strong-hoof'd mules, which we behold
Rein'd in with purple, pearl, and gold,
And shed with silver, prove to be
The drawers of the axle-tree;
Thy wife, thy children, and the state
Of Persian looms and antique plate:
--All these, and more, shall then afford
No joy to thee, their sickly lord.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Time was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I call'd on
Him but awhile to stay;
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.
He held out then A writing, as he went, And ask'd me, when False man would be content To pay again What God and Nature lent.
An hour-glass, In which were sands but few, As he did pass, He shew'd,--and told me too Mine end near was;-- And so away he flew.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here,
Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year;
Long I have lasted in this world; 'tis true
But yet those years that I have lived, but few.
Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell, Lives not those years, but he that lives them well: One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he Of all those three-score has not lived half three: He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest
And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night.

Written by Robert Herrick | |

To His Honoured and Most Ingenious Friend Mr. Charles Cotton

 For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration:
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony, and weight.
Tell'st when a verse springs high, how understood To be, or not born of the Royal blood.
What state above, what symmetry below, Lines have, or should have, thou the best canst show.
For which (my Charles) it is my pride to be, Not so much known, as to be loved by thee.
Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays, Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.

Written by Robert Herrick | |


 Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere,
On this sick youth work your enchantments here!
Bind up his senses with your numbers, so
As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe.
Fall gently, gently, and a-while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossess'd of pain, Like to a slumbering bride, awake again.

Written by Robert Herrick | |

Be My Mistress Short or Tall

 Be my mistress short or tall 
And distorted therewithall 
Be she likewise one of those 
That an acre hath of nose 
Be her teeth ill hung or set 
And her grinders black as jet 
Be her cheeks so shallow too 
As to show her tongue wag through 
Hath she thin hair, hath she none 
She's to me a paragon.