Robert Herrick addresses Endymion Porter, who has lost his brother, and begins by reassuring him that darkness never lasts. The sun does set, but morning always “regilds” the eastern sky—so Porter’s own bright days are not finished. Then the poem turns inward: Herrick confesses that he himself feels utterly undone, as if every prop and shelter he climbed has collapsed beneath him. His language is intimate and raw, making the grief immediate. Yet, in the same breath, he finds a surprising foothold. Because Porter remains alive, Herrick can undergo a kind of resurrection, rising like a phoenix from his own funeral fire, no longer amazed that he once wanted to die. The debt of sorrow is repaid by gratitude; the friendship works like a generous vine that keeps refilling the winepress. The overall mood moves from consoling another’s loss, through a sudden glimpse of personal devastation, into a quiet, grateful revival.
An Ode to Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother's Death — Summary
Not all thy flushing suns are set, Herrick, as yet ; Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere. Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest As dead within the west ; Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.
Alas ! for me, that I have lost E'en all almost ; Sunk is my sight, set is my sun, And all the loom of life undone : The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wall Whereon my vine did crawl, Now, now blown down ; needs must the old stock fall.
Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive, In death I thrive : And like a phoenix re-aspire From out my nard and fun'ral fire ; And as I prune my feathered youth, so I Do mar'l how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.
I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand Which makes me stand Now as I do, and but for thee I must confess I could not be. The debt is paid ; for he who doth resign Thanks to the gen'rous vine Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.