Upon A Gentlewoman With A Sweet Voice.

So long you did not sing or touch your lute,
We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.
But when your playing and your voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

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

To Electra. Love Looks For Love.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To His Closet-Gods.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Goodness Of His God.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon A Maid.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

Upon Sappho Sweetly Playing And Sweetly Singing.

When thou dost play and sweetly sing -
Whether it be the voice or string
Or both of them that do agree
Thus to entrance and ravish me -
This, this I know, I'm oft struck mute,
And die away upon thy lute.

Robert Herrick

Upon Her Voice.

Let but thy voice engender with the string,
And angels will be born while thou dost sing.

Robert Herrick

Upon Julia's Voice.

So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise,
But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.

Robert Herrick

Upon Julia's Voice

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.

Robert Herrick

To A Lady Who Had Been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit's touch alone can know,
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes, and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,
So archly, that the heart may smile,
Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave
Music's soft twilight o'er the breast,
As mingling day and night, at eve,
Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
And echoing memory shall prolong
Those woman tones, whose sweet control
Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-shell, borne away
Far from the ocean's pebbly shore,
Still loves to hum the choral lay,
The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

T...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Upon Linnet. Epig.

Linnet plays rarely on the lute, we know;
And sweetly sings, but yet his breath says no.

Robert Herrick