It’s the birthday of poet and priest George Herbert (1593-1633), known as one of the great metaphysical poets. (Metaphysical poetry: highly intellectualized poetry marked by the use of strange imagery, complexity of thought, and big buttery handfuls of paradox. A shout out to Samuel Johnson for coining the term as a way of describing a group* of 17th century British poets that included Herbert, John Donne, Andrew Marvell, and like that.) In addition to being a brilliant poet, Herbert was by all accounts a principled man and a truly compassionate priest to the people he served.

Herbert was born into a prominent Welsh family, the seventh of 10 children; his father, Richard, died when Herbert was only three and his mother, Lady Magdalene Herbert, was still pregnant with child number 10. (Magdalene was an impressive person herself and was a patron of John Donne.) Magdalene moved her family to Oxford, then London, and Herbert entered Westminster School, where he distinguished himself. He continued distinguishing himself like mad at Trinity College, Cambridge, and was elected Public Orator for the University in 1620. (Yes. That was a thing. It was a PR-type position.) He was a representative to Parliament in 1624 and 1625 but became disillusioned with government as a way to live out the Christian life and thereafter pursued life in the Church, becoming ordained as a priest at Salisbury Cathedral in 1630. He was the rector at St. Andrew’s Church in Bemerton for less than three years before he died of consumption at age 40.

Herbert had probably been writing his poetry for many years before he became rector, but his collection, The Temple, was not published until the year of his death. The book became very popular and was reprinted 20 times over the next 50 years. Some of the poems described his personal spiritual struggles; some focused on doctrine or church ritual. He also left behind his prose work, The Country Parson, describing “the Form and Character of a true Pastor.”

Herbert’s poem “Love (III)” begins:

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack’d anything…

(See entire poem here.)

Have a wholly fine Tuesday and stay scrupulously honest to the data.

*You know how some creatures have really satisfying group names, like “a murder of crows” or “a mob of kangaroos”? There is currently no group name for poets. I propose “a famishment of poets.” Discuss.