Be the motive grave or gay, it is given that faultlessness of form
which distinguishes everything in literature that has survived its
own period. There is no such thing as "form" alone; it is only the
close-grained material that takes the highest finish. The structure
of Herrick's verse, like that of Blake, is simple to the verge of
innocence. Such rhythmic intricacies as those of Shelley, Tennyson, and
Swinburne he never dreamed of. But his manner has this perfection: it
fits his matter as the cup of the acorn fits its meat.
Of passion, in the deeper sense, Herrick has little or none. Here are
no "tears from the depth of some divine despair," no probings into the
tragic heart of man, no insight that goes much farther than the pathos
of a cowslip on a maiden's grave. The tendrils of his verse reach up to
the light, and love the warmer side of the garden wall. But the reader
who does not detect the seriousness under the lightness misreads
Herrick. Nearly all true poets have been wholesome and joyous singers.
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