“Have I no harvest but a thorn to let me blood?”

“Have I no harvest but a thorn to let me blood?” August 7, 2014

398765181_0a2010401e_zSince our last poem in this space turned out to be surprisingly popular, here’s another of my favorites about those times when following one’s calling seems difficult.  This poem has been interpreted as Herbert’s wrestling with his own calling of being a priest, and much of the imagery speaks to that. But it has something to say to all of us, I think.

The Collar

By George Herbert

I struck the board, and cried, “No more;
                         I will abroad!
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free, free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
          Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
          Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
    Before my tears did drown it.
      Is the year only lost to me?
          Have I no bays to crown it,
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
                  All wasted?
Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
            And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage,
             Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
          And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
          Away! take heed;
          I will abroad.
Call in thy death’s-head there; tie up thy fears;
          He that forbears
         To suit and serve his need
          Deserves his load.”
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
          At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, Child!
          And I replied My Lord.
Found many places; I got it from here.  Image: “Every Rose Has its Thorn” by Annadriel.

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