The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Dull to myself and almost dead to theseA
My many fresh and fragrant mistressesB
Lost to all music now since every thingC
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowingC
Sick is the land to th' heart and doth endureD
More dangerous faintings by her desperate cureD
But if that golden age would come againE
And Charles here rule as he before did reignF
If smooth and unperplex'd the seasons wereG
As when the sweet Maria lived hereH
I should delight to have my curls half drown'dI
In Tyrian dews and head with roses crown'dI
And once more yet ere I am laid out deadJ
Knock at a star with my exalted headJ

Robert Herrick


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