Collected English Verse — Robert Herrick. b. 1591, d. 1674 (Part 2 of 7)

257   To the Western Wind

SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
   Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna’s lip a kiss,
   And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee,
   Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me,
   And all beset with flowers.

258   To Electra

I DARE not ask a kiss,
   I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that, or this,
   I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share
   Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air
   That lately kissàd thee.

259   To Violets

WELCOME, maids of honour!
     You do bring
    In the spring,
     And wait upon her.

She has virgins many,
     Fresh and fair;
     Yet you are
More sweet than any.

You’re the maiden posies,
     And so graced
     To be placed
’Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected,
      By-and-by
      Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.

260   To Daffodils

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
   You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
   Has not attain’d his noon.
          Stay, stay
      Until the hasting day
          Has run
      But to the evensong;
And, having pray’d together, we
     Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
   We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
   As you, or anything.
      We die
    As your hours do, and dry
      Away
    Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
    Ne’er to be found again.

261   To Blossoms

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
   Why do ye fall so fast?
   Your date is not so past
But you may stay yet here awhile
   To blush and gently smile,
      And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
   An hour or half’s delight,
   And so to bid good night?
’Twas pity Nature brought you forth
   Merely to show your worth
      And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
   May read how soon things have
   Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
   Like you awhile, they glide
      Into the grave.

262   The Primrose

ASK me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearl’d with dew?
I will whisper to your ears:—
The sweets of love are mix’d with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending (yet it doth not break)?
I will answer:— These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.

263   The Funeral Rites of the Rose

THE Rose was sick and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood:
Some hung the head, while some did bring,
To wash her, water