The Argument of His Book

The Argument of His Book

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, hock carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab and of the fairy king.
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

Robert Herrick, 1648



Recently, a friend of mine awoke a long-dormant appreciation of poetry in me, and I remembered why I fell in love with it in the first place. So this is the place for my thoughts on poems of all kinds, from romantic to comic, hopeful to doomed, deep to fanciful. Some rhyme, some don't, all are great works, and none are written by me. If you have a thought on the poem, please share, I love a good talk about poetry.