Asking a nymph for a drink sounds like the simplest request imaginable, and Herrick turns it into a small piece of magic. The speaker of "To the Water-Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain" is thirsty, but what he really wants is to watch beauty transform whatever it touches. In two quatrains he makes two requests, first for a cup of spring water and then, with a casual "or else," for something stranger. Both are really compliments. The nymphs are so lovely that their touch can make flowers bloom and water turn to wine.
The first stanza begins with an imperative, "Reach with your whiter hands to me," which is sweetened by the softness of the request. "Whiter" is a comparison with nothing on the other side. Whiter than what? The water, the lilies, the speaker's own hand? The poem doesn't say, and that gap suggests a whiteness beyond measuring. The water itself becomes "some crystal of the spring," a word that makes it hard, clear and jewel-like before anyone has drunk it. Then comes the promise: "I about the cup shall see / Fresh lilies flourishing." Judging by the imagery, the lilies are the white hands themselves, blooming around the rim of the cup. The rhyme of "spring" with "flourishing" locks source and growth together, and the soft *fl* sounds and trailing ending make the line seem to be still growing as we read it.
The second stanza is more daring than it pretends to be. "Do you but this" makes the favour sound smaller, yet the "this" is a kiss. The kiss is indirect, though. The nymphs' lips are to "incline" toward the "glass," not toward the speaker, so the flirtation keeps a polite distance. The shift from "cup" to "glass" also moves us from a rustic vessel to a drinking glass, ready for wine. The speaker bargains modestly ("that one kiss") and then delivers the punchline in the final line: "The water turn'd to wine." The line recalls the miracle in the Gospels, but here the miraculous worker is a nymph's mouth. The sacred is borrowed for a gallant joke, and the joke works because it is so lightly done.
The shape of the poem helps this lightness. Each stanza rhymes ABAB, and the lines alternate between eight syllables and six, in an easy, mostly iambic rhythm. The longer lines set up each thought and the shorter ones land it. "Some crystal of the spring," "Fresh lilies flourishing," "To th' glass your lips incline," and "The water turn'd to wine" are all short lines, and each one delivers a picture. The elision in "To th'" is a small sign of how carefully the syllables are counted. The rhymes grow more pointed too. "This" and "kiss" hiss together intimately, and the closing "incline" and "wine" supply the poem's last chime, so the miracle arrives exactly where the rhyme does.
The speaker's grammar is also revealing. Both stanzas use the same phrase, "And I … shall see," and he never actually drinks. Everything happens in the eye. Whether the lilies and the wine are real or only what the nymphs' beauty makes him imagine, the poem leaves open. The wine may even be a kind of intoxication, since the first request asks for purity (crystal water) and the second for something headier. There is also a gentle paradox in the title, since water-nymphs are creatures of water, yet the speaker wants their touch to improve on water itself.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it does in eight short lines. It has a complete structure of request, escalation and surprise. It makes a compliment feel fresh by showing its effects rather than stating it. It lets a religious image become something playful without any harshness. A student looking for an example of how restraint can create charm will find one here. Herrick never says the nymphs are beautiful. He simply lets the lilies bloom and the water change, and asks us to believe what the speaker sees.