The Watch

Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never
Wound up again; Once down, he's down for ever.
The watch once down, all motions then do cease;
The man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.

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

Mrs Eliz Wheeler, Under The Name Of The Lost Shepherdess

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Haste Hurtful.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

A Vow To Minerva.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Up Scoble

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Watchman.

A TRIO.


WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest--
    How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer--
    Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
    The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee--
    The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they're past without thee,
    They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning!
    Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning--
    So now...

Thomas Moore

The Clock-Winder

It is dark as a cave,
Or a vault in the nave
When the iron door
Is closed, and the floor
Of the church relaid
With trowel and spade.

But the parish-clerk
Cares not for the dark
As he winds in the tower
At a regular hour
The rheumatic clock,
Whose dilatory knock
You can hear when praying
At the day's decaying,
Or at any lone while
From a pew in the aisle.

Up, up from the ground
Around and around
In the turret stair
He clambers, to where
The wheelwork is,
With its tick, click, whizz,
Reposefully measuring
Each day to its end
That mortal men spend
In sorrowing and pleasuring
Nightly thus does he climb
To the trackway of Time.

Him I followed one night
To this place without light,

Thomas Hardy

To his Watch

Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart
Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I
Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie
The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art?
The telling time our task is; time's some part,
Not all, but we were framed to fail and die -
One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby
Is comfort's carol of all or woe's worst smart.

Field-flown the departed day no morning brings
Saying 'This was yours' with her, but new one, worse.
And then that last and shortest . . .

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Hour-Glass

That hour-glass which there you see
With water fill'd, sirs, credit me,
The humour was, as I have read,
But lovers' tears incrystalled.
Which, as they drop by drop do pass
From th' upper to the under-glass,
Do in a trickling manner tell,
By many a watery syllable,
That lovers' tears in lifetime shed
Do restless run when they are dead.

Robert Herrick

Upon Time

Time was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I call'd on
Him but awhile to stay;
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.

He held out then
A writing, as he went,
And ask'd me, when
False man would be content
To pay again
What God and Nature lent.

An hour-glass,
In which were sands but few,
As he did pass,
He shew'd, and told me too
Mine end near was;
And so away he flew.

Robert Herrick

Retrospect: The Jests Of The Clock.

He had met hours of the clock he never guessed    before,
Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear,
Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,
Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear,
And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground,
Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound.

When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night,
When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire
Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight,
When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire,
Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers.
O lagging watch!    O dawn!    O hope-forsaken hours!

How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage
He swore he'd be a dolt, a trait...

Robert von Ranke Graves