By George Herbert.
Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie?
Is all good structure in a winding stiar?
May no lines passe, except they do their dutie
Not to a true, but painted chair?
Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be vail'd, while he that reads divines,
Catching the sense at two removes?
Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list for me, and pull for Prime:
I envie no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with loss of rime
Who plainly say, My God, My King.
In case I haven't said it enough: I really like George Herbert. By the way, I'm reading Tennyson's "In Memoriam" right now. It's interesting, though I'm not sure it bodes well for the destiny of his soul.
ReplyDeleteHerbert just gets cooler with every new poem I find; and it's a rare poet one can say that of.
ReplyDeleteI keep meaning to get around to "In Memoriam." Right now I'm in the middle of Zahn's _Vision of the Future_, a _Top 100 Poems_ book, _The Luxe_, and started Dave Barry's _Peter and the Starcatchers_. Oh, and a Sovereign Grace book on marriage someone gave us. It's decently good, and definitely comes out of the Sovereign Grace tradition (You ARE a sinner and you DO need Christ for your marriage to work).