Robert Herrick

(1591-1674 / London / England)

The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad - Poem by Robert Herrick

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Dull to myself, and almost dead to these,
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since every thing
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
Sick is the land to th' heart; and doth endure
More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure.
But if that golden age would come again,
And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons were,
As when the sweet Maria lived here;
I should delight to have my curls half drown'd
In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd:
And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,
Knock at a star with my exalted head.


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Read poems about / on: sick, star, music, lost, sad, heart, sorrow, rose



Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002



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