George Herbert’s speaker notices white hairs—the harbingers of age—and panics. He feels his mind being dismantled, his sparkling ideas scattered, dullness closing in. But then the quiet phrase “Thou art still my God” breaks through and anchors him. Even as his poetic gifts fade, he trusts that if he pleases God, his words are enough. The poem turns into a tender farewell to the sweet phrases and metaphors he once rescued from low places and dressed for church. He asks if some fond lover has tempted his honeyed language to a sty, but then shrugs: let it go. True beauty, he recalls, is borrowed from heaven. In the end, he lets the “birds of spring” depart, welcoming a bleak winter if it means his inner devotion burns brighter. The mood is bittersweet—a mix of grief for lost eloquence and a resilient, almost defiant trust that the simplest prayer is everything.
The Forerunners — Summary
The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; White is their colour, and behold my head. But must they have my brain? must they dispark Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? Must dulnesse turn me to a clod? Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God.
Good men ye be, to leave me my best room, Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodged there: I passe not, I, what of the rest become, So Thou art still my God, be out of fear. He will be pleased with that dittie; And if I please him, I write fine and wittie.
Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors. But will ye leave me thus? when ye before Of stews and brothels onely knew the doores, Then did I wash you with my tears, and more, Brought you to Church well drest and clad; My God must have my best, ev'n all I had.
Louely enchanting language, sugar-cane, Hony of roses, whither wilt thou flie? Hath some fond lover tic'd thee to thy bane? And wilt thou leave the Church, and love a stie? Fie, thou wilt soil thy broider'd coat, And hurt thy self, and him that sings the note.
Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung, With canvas, not with arras clothe their shame: Let follie speak in her own native tongue. True beautie dwells on high: ours is a flame But borrow'd thence to light us thither. Beautie and beauteous words should go together.
Yet if you go, I passe not; take your way: For, Thou art still my God, is all that ye Perhaps with more embellishment can say, Go birds of spring: let winter have his fee, Let a bleak palenesse chalk the doore, So all within be livelier then before.