The Collar

      I STRUCK the board, and cried, No more.

                  I will abroad.

      What? shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free; free as the road,

      Loose as the wind, as large as store.

            Shall I be still in suit?

      Have I no harvest but a thorn

      To let me blood, and not restore

What I have lost with cordial fruit?

                  Sure there was wine

Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn

            Before my tears did drown it.

      Is the year only lost to me?

            Have I no bays to crown it?

No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?

                  All wasted?

      No so, my heart: but there is fruit,

                  And thou hast hands.

                  Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

Of what is fit, and not forsake thy cage,

                  Thy rope of sands,

Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee

Good cable, to enforce and draw,

                  And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

                  Away; take heed:

                  I will abroad.

Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears.

                  He that forbears

             To suit and serve his need,

                  Deserves his load.

But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wild

                  At every word,

Me thoughts I heard one calling, Child:

                  And I reply'd, My Lord.

George Herbert

The Pulley

    WHEN God at first made man,

Having a glass of blesings standing by;

Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:

Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,

    Contract into a span.

    So strength first made a way;

The beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:

When almost all was out, God made a stay,

Perceiving that alone of all his treasure

    Rest in the bottom lay.

    For if I should (said he)

Bestow this jewel also on my creature,

He would adore my gifts instead of me,

And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:

    So both should losers be.

    Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness:

Let him be rish and weary, that at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

    May toss him to my breast.

George Herbert

The Flower

      HOW fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean

Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring;

      To which, besides their own demean,

The late-past frosts tributes of pleasures bring.

                  Grief melts away

                  Like snow in May,

      As if there were no such cold thing.

      Who would have thought my shrivl'd heart

Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone

      Quite under ground; as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown;

                  Where they together

                  All the hard weather

      Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

      These are thy wonders, Lord of power,

Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell

      And up to heaven in an hour;

Making a chiming of a passing-bell.

                  We say amiss,

                  This or that is:

      Thy word is all, if we could spell.

      O that I once past changing were,

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!

      Many a spring I shoot up fair,

Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither:

                  Nor doth my flower

                  Want a spring-shower,

      My sins and I joining together:

      But while I grow in a straight line,

Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own,

      Thy anger comes, and I decline:

What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,

                  Where all things burn,

                  When thou dost turn,

      And the least frown of thine is shown?

      And now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;

      I once more smell the dew and rain,

And relish versing: O my only light,

                  It cannot be

                  That I am her

      On whom thy tempests fell all night.

      These are thy wonders, Lord of love,

To make us see we are but flowers that glide:

      Which when we once can find and prove,

Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.

                  Who would be more,

                  Swelling through store,

      Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

George Herbert

A Wreath

A WREATHED garland of deserved praise,

Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,

I give to thee, who knowest all my ways,

My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,

Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,

Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,

To thee, who art more far above deceit,

Than deceit seems above simplicity.

Give me simplicity, that I may live,

So live and like, that I may know thy ways,

Know them and practice them: then I shall give

For this poor wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

George Herbert

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 lacked anything.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:

                Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, 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.

George Herbert

Easter Wings

LORD, who createdst man in wealth and store,

    Though foolishly he lost the same,

         Decaying more and more,

             Till he became

                Most poor:

                With thee

             O let me rise

         As larks, harmoniously,

    And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did begin:

    And still with sicknesses and shame

         Thou didst so punish sin,

             That I became

                 Most thin.

                 With thee

             Let me combine

         And feel this day thy victory

    For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

George Herbert

Sunday

      O DAY most calm, most bright

The fruit of this, the next world's bud,

Th'endorsement of supreme delight,

Writ by a friend, and with his blood;

The couch of time; care's balm and bay:

The week were dark, but for thy light:

       Thy torch doth show the way.

       The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,

Knocking at heaven with thy brow:

The worky-days are the back-part;

The burden of the week lies there,

Making the whole to stoop and bow,

       Till thy release appear.

       Man had straight forward gone

To endless death: but thou dost pull

And turn us round to look on one,

Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose to look on still;

Since there is no place so alone,

       The which he doth not fill.

       Sundays the pillars are,

On which heav'n's palace arched lies:

The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful beds and borders

In God's rich garden: that is bare,

       Which parts their ranks and orders.

       The Sundays of man's life,

Threaded together on time's string,

Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal glorious King.

On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;

Blessings are plentiful and rife,

       More plentiful than hope.

       This day my Saviour rose,

And did enclose this light for his:

That, as each beast his manger knows,

Man might not of his fodder miss.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground,

And made a garden there for those

       Who want herbs for their wound.

       The rest of our Creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at his passion

Did th'earth and all things with it move.

As Samson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

       And did unhinge that day.

       The brightness of that day

We sullied by our foul offence:

Wherefore that robe we cast away,

Having a new at his expense,

Whose drops of bloud paid the full price,

That was requir'd to make us gay,

       And fit for Paradise.

       Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the weekdays trail on ground,

Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.

O let me take thee at the bound,

Leaping with thee from sev'n to sev'n,

Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

       Fly hand in hand to heav'n!

George Herbert

Church Music

SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you; when displeasure

Did though my body wound my mind,

You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure

A dainty lodging me assign'd.

Now I in you with a body move,

Rising and falling with your wings;

We both together sweetly live and love,

Yet say sometimes, God help poor Kings.

Comfort, I'll die; for if you post from me,

Sure I shall do so, and much more;

But if I travel in your company,

You know the way to Heaven's door.

George Herbert