How The Wall-Flower Came First, And Why So Called.

Why this flower is now call'd so,
List, sweet maids, and you shall know.
Understand, this firstling was
Once a brisk and bonnie lass,
Kept as close as Danaë was:
Who a sprightly springall lov'd,
And to have it fully prov'd,
Up she got upon a wall,
Tempting down to slide withal:
But the silken twist untied,
So she fell, and, bruis'd, she died.
Love, in pity of the deed,
And her loving-luckless speed,
Turn'd her to this plant we call
Now the flower of the wall.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Courage Cooled.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Rosemary And Bays.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Lusk.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Julia's Unlacing Herself

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Foreword To Weeds By The Wall

In the first rare spring of song,
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Choosing 'mid the flowers: - 

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To The Same Flower
Pleasures newly found are sweet
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Celandine! and long ago,
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I have not a doubt but he,
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Soon as gentle breezes bring
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The Old English Garden - A Floral Phantasy
In an old world garden dreaming,
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And while Time his scythe is whetting,
Ere the dew from the grass has gone,

The Four Seasons' flight forgetting,
As they dance round the dial stone;

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Let us note from the green arbour's nook,
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The Primrose
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
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I will whisper to your ears,
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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.

Ah!woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
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By you, sir, to awake him.

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The Tell-Tale Flowers
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Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers,
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And childhood's dreams again.
The primrose on the woodland lea
Was more than gold and lands to me.

The violets by the woodland side
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