Hell.

Hell is no other but a soundless pit,
Where no one beam of comfort peeps in it.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

The Rod.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

A Song.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Rosary

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Tears.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Hell.

Hell is the place where whipping-cheer abounds,
But no one jailer there to wash the wounds.

Robert Herrick

Hell Fire.

One only fire has hell; but yet it shall
Not after one sort there excruciate all:
But look, how each transgressor onward went
Boldly in sin, shall feel more punishment.

Robert Herrick

Hell Fire.

The fire of hell this strange condition hath,
To burn, not shine, as learned Basil saith.

Robert Herrick

Comfort In Calamity.

'Tis no discomfort in the world to fall,
When the great crack not crushes one, but all.

Robert Herrick

Contemplating Hell

Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,
My brother Shelley found it to be a place
Much like the city of London. I,
Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,
Find, contemplating Hell, that it
Must be even more like Los Angeles.

Also in Hell,
I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens
With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,
Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great leaps of fruit, which nonetheless

Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,
Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.
And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,
Even when inhabited.
...

Bertolt Brecht

Comfort To A Youth That Had Lost His Love

What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What's said or done
In earth:
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears;
Nor does she mind,
Or think on't now,
That ever thou
Wast kind:
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.

Robert Herrick