Poem by Robert Herrick

To Laurels

A funeral stone
Or verse, I covet none;
But only crave
Of you that I may have
A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
Which being seen
Blest with perpetual green,
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.

1. I Call and I Call
2. Loss from the Least
3. Upon the Detracter
4. The Succession of the Four Sweet Months
5. Love, What It Is

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