Robert Herrick

(1591-1674 / London / England)

Robert Herrick Poems

281. A Thanksgiving To God, For His House 12/31/2002
282. A Hymn To Venus And Cupid 12/31/2002
283. Delight In Disorder 12/31/2002
284. A Vow To Venus 12/31/2002
285. Upon The Nipples Of Julia's Breast 1/13/2003
286. A Child's Grace 1/4/2003
287. To Daffodils 12/31/2002
288. A Hymn To Love 12/31/2002
289. Dreams 12/31/2002
290. To The Virgins, Make Much Of Time 12/31/2002

Comments about Robert Herrick

  • Nasir manal (8/19/2018 3:30:00 AM)

    He also wrote the Daffodils You are spose to enter this information too Ok

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  • Nasir (8/19/2018 3:28:00 AM)

    Robert Herrick also wrote Daffodils

  • andy shoebridge (4/26/2018 12:52:00 PM)

    I have a poem book by Robert herrick to dianeme is this book worth anything

  • Emma Shaw (12/8/2010 2:14:00 PM)

    I have just won a one euro bet that the name of this poem was to daffodils and not to the daffodils. It's a great poem, and nicer in my view than the much more famous wordsworth poem.

  • Cado Bell (10/12/2006 10:52:00 AM)

    Saw this poem on a crammed tube train in London about 30 years ago.
    had nowhere to look except at the angled adverts above. (alliteration unintended)
    -and it just stuck.

    Don't remember even learning it off.
    and now thanks to this wonderful website I found it again.

Best Poem of Robert Herrick

To The Virgins, Make Much Of Time

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

- Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Read the full of To The Virgins, Make Much Of Time

The Mad Maid's Song

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

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