Delight in Disorder
It was around 2 weeks ago, when a casual conversation that started with a reference to BlackAdder, wound its way to Elizabethan English poets and playwrights. That conversation has rekindled my love for the genre of the Cavalier poets. I was leafing through one of the volumes I own on this subject and found one of my favorite poems.
Delight in Disorder
by Robert Herrick
(1591-1674)
A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction :
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher :
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly :
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat :
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
by Robert Herrick
(1591-1674)
A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction :
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher :
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly :
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat :
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
2 comments:
Wicked! My favourite Herrick:
TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
Gather ye rosebuds 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.
That ones great
I love Robert Herrick
heres another of my faves
to music, to becalm his fever
CHARM me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like the silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptim o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.
Check out some Thomas Campion poems too. Wicked cool
Post a Comment