On Himself

Lost to the world; lost to myself; alone
Here now I rest under this marble stone,
In depth of silence, heard and seen of none.

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

A Sonnet Of Perilla.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Staff And Rod.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Much-More. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Shewbread. Epig.

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.

On Himself

Weep for the dead, for they have lost this light;
And weep for me, lost in an endless night;
Or mourn, or make a marble verse for me,
Who writ for many.    BENEDICTE.

Robert Herrick

Upon Himself Being Buried.

Let me sleep this night away,
Till the dawning of the day;
Then at th' opening of mine eyes
I, and all the world, shall rise.

Robert Herrick

On Himself.

Some parts may perish, die thou canst not all:
The most of thee shall 'scape the funeral.

Robert Herrick

On Himself

I'll write no more of love, but now repent
Of all those times that I in it have spent.
I'll write no more of life, but wish 'twas ended,
And that my dust was to the earth commended.

Robert Herrick

On Himself.

If that my fate has now fulfill'd my year,
And so soon stopt my longer living here;
What was't, ye gods, a dying man to save,
But while he met with his paternal grave!
Though while we living 'bout the world do roam,
We love to rest in peaceful urns at home,
Where we may snug, and close together lie
By the dead bones of our dear ancestry.

Robert Herrick

On Himself.

I fear no earthly powers,
But care for crowns of flowers;
And love to have my beard
With wine and oil besmear'd.
This day I'll drown all sorrow:
Who knows to live to-morrow?

Robert Herrick