Every Day Poems

A Poem A Day

1600s

HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR by Robert Herrick

by

Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR

Only a little more
I have to write:
Then I’ll give o’er,
And bid the world good-night.

‘Tis but a flying minute,
That I must stay,
Or linger in it:
And then I must away.

O Time, that cut’st down all,
And scarce leav’st here
Memorial
Of any men that were;poe

?How many lie forgot
In vaults beneath,
And piece-meal rot
Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,
Ne’er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up
If so they please;
Here is my hope,
And my Pyramides.

THE WORLD by Lord Francis Bacon

by

Francis Bacon (1561-1628)

THE WORLD

by Lord Francis Bacon of Verulam

The World’s a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span: In his conception wretched, from the womb,
So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men: And where’s a city from foul vice so free,
But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed,
Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse: Some would have children: those that have them, moan
Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affection still at home to please
Is a disease: To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil: Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace;? What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?

Upon A Spider Catching A Fly by Edward Taylor

by

Upon A Spider Catching A Fly

by Edward Taylor (1642-1729)

Thou sorrow, venom Elfe:
Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyselfe
To Catch a Fly?
For Why?

I saw a pettish wasp
Fall foule therein:
Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp
Lest he should fling
His sting.

But as affraid, remote
Didst stand hereat,
And with thy little fingers stroke
And gently tap
His back.

Thus gently him didst treate
Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish, aspish heate
Should greatly fret
Thy net.

Whereas the silly Fly,
Caught by its leg
Thou by the throate tookst hastily
And ?hinde the head
Bite Dead.

This goes to pot, that not
Nature doth call.
Strive not above what strength hath got,
Lest in the brawle
Thou fall.

This Frey seems thus to us.
Hells Spider gets
His intrails spun to whip Cords thus
And wove to nets
And sets.

To tangle Adams race
In?s stratigems
To their Destructions, spoil?d, made base
By venom things,
Damn?d Sins.

But mighty, Gracious Lord
Communicate
Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford
Us Glorys Gate
And State.

We’l Nightingaile sing like
When pearcht on high
In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright,
And thankfully,
For joy.

On a Girdle by EDMUND WALLER

by

Edmund Waller (1606-1687)

On a Girdle by EDMUND WALLER

That which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair:
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun by William Shakespeare

by

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun by William Shakespeare
(Sonnet 130)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.