George Herbert opens with a direct, almost desperate address to God, asking where the old burning devotion of the martyrs has gone. The speaker worries that poetry has become a servant only to Venus, to romantic love, and wonders why sonnets can’t be offered up as praise instead. He asks whether God’s spirit—the Dove—can’t far outstrip Cupid in inspiring great verse. There’s frustration here, but also a tender confidence that a poem carrying God’s name will naturally run smooth. The final lines twist into a more biting question: why does the divine fire every person feels settle for such lowly fuel—for mortal, decaying subjects that even worms will someday reject? It’s a poem that creates a mood of intense, searching piety, like a believer standing at the crossroads of art and faith, disappointed in himself and his age, yet longing to rekindle a braver, holier flame.
Sonnet (I) — Summary
My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, Wherewith whole showls of Martyrs once did burn, Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry Wear Venus livery? only serve her turn? Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and layes Upon thine Altar burnt? Cannot thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Out-strip their Cupid easily in flight? Or, since thy wayes are deep, and still the fame, Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose Than that, which one day, Worms, may chance refuse?