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3.17: Selected Poems by George Herbert

From the Middle Ages to the Early Eighteenth Century · LibreTexts

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    Death
        Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
                          Nothing but bones,
           The sad effect of sadder groans:
        Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
     
    5  For we considered thee as at some six
                          Or ten years hence,
            After the loss of life and sense,
       Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks.
     
        We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;
    10                             Where we did find
            The shells of fledge souls left behind,
        Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.
     
        But since our Savior’s death did put some blood
                          Into thy face,
    15        Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
        Much in request, much sought for as a good.
     
        For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
                          As at Doomsday;
          When souls shall wear their new array,
    20 And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.
     
        Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
                          Half that we have
            Unto an honest faithful grave;
        Making our pillows either down, or dust.

    George Herbert

     

    Artillery
        As I one evening sat before my cell,
        Methought a star did shoot into my lap.
        I rose and shook my clothes, as knowing well
        That from small fires comes oft no small mishap;
    5           When suddenly I heard one say,
             “Do as thou usest, disobey,
             Expel good motions from thy breast,
        Which have the face of fire, but end in rest.”
     
       I, who had heard of music in the spheres,
    10 But not of speech in stars, began to muse;
       But turning to my God, whose ministers
       The stars and all things are: “If I refuse,
            Dread Lord,” said I, “so oft my good,
            Then I refuse not ev’n with blood
    15         To wash away my stubborn thought;
        For I will do or suffer what I ought.
     
        “But I have also stars and shooters too,
        Born where thy servants both artilleries use.
        My tears and prayers night and day do woo
    20 And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse.
           Not but I am (I must say still)
           Much more obliged to do thy will
           Than thou to grant mine; but because
       Thy promise now hath ev’n set thee thy laws.
     
    25 “Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deign
        To enter combat with us, and contest
        With thine own clay. But I would parley fain:
        Shun not my arrows, and behold my breast.
               Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine:
    30          I must be so, if I am mine.
            There is no articling with thee:
        I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.”

    George Herbert

    Works Cited 

    Herbert, George. "Artillery." The Poems of George Herbert, introduced by Arthur Waugh and Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, 1907, pp. 142-43. The Internet Archive, (Public Domain).

    ---. "Death." The Poems of George Herbert, introduced by Arthur Waugh and Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, 1907, pp. 192-93. The Internet Archive, (Public Domain).

    This page titled 3.17: Selected Poems by George Herbert was last modified on Fri, 31 Jul 2026 23:26:12 GMT and is shared under a CC BY-SA 4.0 license and was authored, remixed, and/or curated by Kelsey Ford.