To God: On His Sickness.

A poem by Robert Herrick

What though my harp and viol be
Both hung upon the willow tree?
What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie number'd with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring; though now a wither'd flower.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'To God: On His Sickness.' by Robert Herrick

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy