Jocund Herrick tho’ this age
Leaves uncut thy merry page,
Leaves thy song, thy robust jest
For Quixotic modern quest;
Thinks that all poetic bliss
Is summed in soul-analysis;
Swinburne’s strange erratic flight,
Weird desire and wild delight;
Pleasures in the paltry host—
Starveling muse’s meager ghost
Dribbling song in purblind flow—
Poesy has sunk so low.
I would see beside the rill
Decked with Lawn and Daffodil
Sweetly thro’ the morning air—
Corinna going to the fair!
I would hear the birds and bees
Sung of in Hesperides;
Would that I were with you there,
Drunken with the dewy air.
And Julia, paragon of grace,
I would look upon her face;
Then might I inspired be,
Fit to join thy company.
Ah! Herrick, softly on thy mound
I would still bestrew the ground—
Daffodil and rosemary
Tokens for thy memory.