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An Ode To Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother’s Death

by Robert Herrick, 1648

Not all thy flushing suns are set,
        Herrick, as yet;
  Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
  Frown and look sullen ev’rywhere.
Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest
    As dead within the west;
Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.

  Alas! for me, that I have lost
        E’en all almost;
  Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,
  And all the loom of life undone:
The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt’ring wall
    Whereon my vine did crawl,
Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall.

  Yet, Porter, while thou keep’st alive,
        In death I thrive:
  And like a phœnix reaspire
  From out my nard and fun’ral fire:
And as I prune my feathered youth, so I
    Do mar’l how I could die
When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.

  I’m up, I’m up, and bless that hand
        Which makes me stand
  Now as I do, and but for thee
  I must confess I could not be.
The debt is paid; for he who doth resign
    Thanks to the gen’rous vine
Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.

Published in Hesperides

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