Five Metaphysical Poets

by Joan Bennett

Mrs Bennett's Four Metaphysical Poets – Donne, Herbert, Vaughan, and Crashaw – was issued under a new title in 1964 with an additional chapter on Andrew Marvell. It is that text which is reprinted here. In her study Mrs Bennett has analysed, emphasised and illustrated the qualities of metaphysical poetry in general, and the peculiarities of the individual poets. She shows that, if we retain the word 'metaphysical' as a label for a poetic tradition, it is as appropriate to Marvell as it is to Vaughan, and more so than to Crashaw.

Genres: Poetry, Criticism

164 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1964

Reviews

[Courtney Johnston · Rating 3 out of 5]

I feel like I need a standard disclaimer for these poetry reviews. I'm groping my way into the world of poetry; I didn't study it at school or university. As a result, all I can do is read and think and read and think, trying to slowly push my way outwards and backwards, tackling the things I find hard or abtruse or unpleasing as well as the poems that slip into me easily, delighting my ear and catching at my heart.

I picked this book up off the shelf at the library for the same reasons I pick up almost any poetry book - because it's slim, and because I trust the publisher. Originally published in 1934, Bennett extended the book in the 1950s to add Andrew Marvell to her original line-up of Donne, Herbert, Vaughn and Crashaw, but, as she says in her foreword, 'in some ways, [her] approach may be said to belong to the nineteen-thirties'.

As a child of the post-modern age, there is something I find distinctly soothing about art criticism from the 1930s and 1940s. It is solid and unfashionable; it is based on close reading; it avoids flights of fancy, its rhetoric is plainly stated and the writers rarely struggle to assign labels like 'good', 'bad' and 'mediocre'. I find this all rather restful.

So, what did I learn from Mrs Bennett, Fellow of Girton College? Well, I learned to read slowly enough to enjoy the poems from this period (the shorter ones, anyway - god knows if I'll ever be able to tackle Shelley and Byron). I learned that John Donne is sexy, that George Herbert is godly, that Henry Vaughn is an unabashed reworker of other poets' writing, but also a man who 'expresses himself in terms of light and stars and running water; these were the stuff of his daily experience.' That Richard Crashaw, with his icky lingering over bodily fluids and wounds, gives me the creeps. And I found out that Andrew Marvell is - well, if he was a scientist, I would call him a poet. Make of that what you will.

One of the thing that startled me about reading into this period (I picked up Helen Gardner's anthology of metaphysical poetry to dip in and out of along the way) was the sheer sensuousness of it. Tears and blood, hair and milk, dew and grass and flowers, eyes and hands and mouths.

From Marvell's The Garden

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Crashaw on St Theresa's consummation of her martyrdom

O what delight, when reveal'd LIFE shall stand
And teach they lipps heav'n with his hand;
One wish thou now maist to thy wishes
Heap up thy consecrated kisses

or from The Weeper

The dew no more will weep
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily's neck;
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Herbert, in Dulnesse, comparing a poet writing for love of a woman to a poet such as he, writing for the love of God, with the same intensity of emotion and physicality:

The wanton lover in a curious strain
Can praise his fairest fair;
And with quaint metaphors her curled hair
Curl o’re again.

Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light,
Beautie alone to me:
Thy bloudy death and undeserv’d, makes thee
Pure red and white.

Or Herbert again, chafing under the collar:

I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The propositions of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:
I know the projects of unbridled store:
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.

Donne encapsulated for me this surprise that God and physical love could be written about in the same ways. From Holy Sonnet XIV

Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish me.

And I think the following lines, from Elegie - Going to bed', are my most favourite thing I have read this past week

Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!

[And by the by, I learned a wonderful new thing. In one of Herbert's poems there's the lines 'For, if I imp my wing on thine / Affliction shall advance the flight in me.' To 'imp', in falconry, is to 'engraft feathers on a damaged wing, so as to restore and improve the powers of flight'. Lovely.]

[Andy Hickman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Affirming the Insight of Joan Bennett: Part One – The Metaphysical Genius of Donne

In Five Metaphysical Poets, Joan Bennett accomplishes a rare and valuable feat: she clarifies without simplifying, analyzes without diminishing, and celebrates without losing critical balance. Her insights into John Donne, the defining figure among the Metaphysical poets, bring to light not only the technical brilliance of his verse, but the uniquely intellectual and emotional force of his poetic vision. Through a careful blend of exposition and close reading, Bennett helps us understand why Donne continues to matter—not merely as a historical figure, but as a voice that still speaks with vitality to modern minds and hearts.

Bennett begins by acknowledging the inadequacy of the term "metaphysical" itself, noting that it can misleadingly suggest abstract philosophical inquiry. As she rightly observes, "the term 'metaphysical', as applied to a group of poets who wrote under the influence of John Donne... is not altogether a happy term, since it gives the impression that Metaphysical poetry discusses the nature of the universe" (p.1). Donne, she insists, is not Milton, not a cosmic theologian mapping out a doctrinal vision of reality. Rather, "he is expressing a state of mind by referring to a background of ideas" (p.2). Bennett deftly distinguishes between the mere use of ideas and the poetic embodiment of mental and emotional experience. For Donne, intellectual constructs are not the subject of his poetry but the medium through which experience is perceived and shaped.

This point is central to Bennett’s thesis: the “metaphysical” dimension is not in the content alone but in the style, and that style reflects “an attitude to experience.” Donne’s poetry, she notes, exemplifies the impulse to find “a connection between... emotion and mental concepts” (p.2). His verse turns personal experience into “grist to an intellectual mill,” always seeking out the analogies that unify feeling and thought. That, in essence, is what gives Donne his lasting originality. Rather than relying on emotional resonance or sensory imagery alone, Donne “preferred to use words which call the mind into play, rather than those that appeal to the senses or evoke an emotional response through memory” (p.5). Such poetry demands more of its readers—not only sensitivity to feeling but the capacity for thought.

Bennett is particularly compelling in her analysis of Donne’s poetic structure and reasoning. She writes that Donne’s pattern is “the pattern of thought, of a mind moving from the contemplation of a fact to deduction from a fact and thence to a conclusion” (p.7). Here, the poem becomes not a lyrical outburst but a cognitive journey. She notes that “Donne appeals through the ear to the intellect” (p.8), a striking phrase that neatly captures his sonic and rhetorical strategies. What emerges is not only an appreciation of Donne’s brilliance but a challenge to the reader: to meet him on the intellectual terrain of tightly woven reasoning and conceptual daring.

Bennett's attention to Donne’s command of language is incisive. In her view, Donne avoids poetic diction not out of rebellion but precision. “Words consecrated to poetry are avoided because such words have accumulated emotion” (p.9), she explains. Donne requires a language unburdened by convention, where words can operate afresh as instruments of thought. His readers must remain alert to the conceptual freight of his imagery, which "demands only an acquaintance with widespread contemporary ideas" (p.12). This is not poetry for the passive reader, but for the engaged thinker—poetry that assumes familiarity with philosophy, science, theology, and the personal drama of love and death.

Bennett’s second chapter deepens her account of Donne, emphasizing his rare blend of emotional intensity and intellectual detachment. “Experience and detachment are equally essential to a poet,” she asserts (p.13), and in Donne we find both: an observer who feels deeply yet governs those feelings with wit, irony, and reflection. Bennett is especially good at highlighting the tonal shifts and juxtapositions in Donne’s work. She praises “the same sense of connection [that] enabled him to pass from the trivial to the sublime, or from jest to earnest” (p.15)—a characteristic that might bewilder those raised on Romantic idealism but which, for Donne, is the very essence of human complexity.

In particular, Bennett draws attention to Donne’s The Apparition, where “controlled passion” and “cold rage” are conveyed through precise manipulation of rhythm and sound (p.17). Such technical command, she notes, is a hallmark of Donne’s method, as is his "robust delight in dialectic" (p.18). For Bennett, Donne’s passion is never raw but always disciplined, rendered vivid through “images as violent as they are vivid” and the “skilful management of rhythm and tempo” (p.18). This balance—of head and heart, of fury and form—is what makes Donne's work so distinctive and enduring.

She further affirms Donne’s originality in matters of subject and tone. Unlike later religious poets such as Herbert or Vaughan, Donne “never, even in his religious poetry, belittled physical love” (p.25). On the contrary, he honored it as part of the whole human relationship. Such integration—of body and soul, sacred and profane—is essential to understanding his poetic theology. In Satyre III, she sees an early concern for religious truth, noting that “religion and the search for the true church are of grave importance to him” (p.26), while in the Holy Sonnets, this search takes on the tone of intimate pleading: “Take mee to you, imprison mee...” (p.26). The spiritual and emotional are inextricably entwined, and Bennett shows how Donne’s rhythms themselves reflect both struggle and serenity, balancing meditative quietness with impassioned earnestness (p.27–28).

In the third chapter, Bennett turns to Donne’s technical innovations, offering some of her most astute commentary. She emphasizes that “the purpose of an image in Donne’s poetry is to define the emotional experience by an intellectual parallel” (p.31). Where Keats immerses us in sensuous immediacy, Donne provokes us to think—often simultaneously inviting us to share an emotion and laugh at its ironic tension. His imagery emerges from his “own interests,” which means his poems are full of surprising, personal analogies (p.32). The reader is invited into a mind whose “hydroptique thirst for human learning” (p.36) generates a poetic field in which theology, astronomy, law, and medicine intersect.

The result is poetry of astonishing breadth and precision. Donne’s symbols—circles, spheres, concentriques—are not mere ornaments but conceptual anchors, evoking “infinity in love,” space, time, and eternity (p.40). His cadences, too, are innovative, drawing upon the rhythms of speech rather than traditional metrics. He “made demands on his reader that no lyric poet had hitherto made,” and his “principle innovation was to make the cadences of speech the staple of his rhythm” (p.43). This produces a drama in sound that can only be fully appreciated aloud, as Bennett demonstrates by comparing him with Gerard Manley Hopkins, another master of musical irregularity and spiritual intensity (p.46).

Bennett’s reading of Donne is not only illuminating; it is inspiring. She affirms Donne as a poet of intellectual vigor, emotional depth, and formal daring. Her work compels us to move beyond superficial labels and appreciate the intricate architecture of Donne’s thought and feeling. In so doing, she restores him to his rightful place—not merely as a clever rhetorician or theological eccentric, but as one of English poetry’s most profound explorers of the human condition.

Part 2: Holy Wit and the Pattern of Grace — On Herbert, Vaughan, and Crashaw in Joan Bennett’s Five Metaphysical Poets

Joan Bennett’s careful study of the Metaphysical poets deepens and widens in the second half of Five Metaphysical Poets as she turns from Donne to his inheritors. George Herbert, Henry Vaughan, and Richard Crashaw form a second triad, each a poetic voice of religious devotion, but with distinct temperaments and spiritual tensions. Bennett treats each with a sense of their theological seriousness and poetic craft. What unites them, as she affirms, is not only a shared metaphysical heritage in Donne’s "wit" and method, but also a shared aim: to render the experience of grace and the pursuit of God in a form that is at once intellectually precise and emotionally sincere.

Herbert, as Bennett shows, is perhaps the most architectonic of the group, his poetry governed by spiritual insight expressed with exacting order. Like Donne, he moves by logic and pattern rather than sheer sensory effect: “Herbert’s imagery, like Donne’s, works through the mind rather than the senses and the structure of his poems is logical” (49). Yet the form never obscures the struggle. “His poetry is not the record of quiet saintliness,” Bennett reminds us, “but of continual wrestling and continual submission; the collar is not easily worn” (54). The famous poem “The Collar” embodies this—its shouted rejection and final whispered surrender enacts the spiritual drama of resistance and return. For Herbert, poetry is “spiritual autobiography” (56), a daily examen cast in verse.

Even his wit serves submission. The poem “Paradise,” in which Herbert prunes off the initial letters of each rhyme word to mimic divine cultivation, is an instance of both technical ingenuity and theological doctrine:

“When thou dost greater judgements S P A R E, / And with thy knife but prune and P A R E, / Ev'n fruitful trees more fruitfull A R E.”

Bennett notes, “cutting off the initial letter of the rhyme word represents God pruning his tree” (56), a rare moment in which poetic technique not only reflects but performs theological truth. The sharpness of the image is part of Herbert’s submission: "Such sharpness shows the sweetest F R E N D: / Such cuttings rather heal than R E N D."

In Herbert, style and sanctity are made one. As Bennett puts it, “Herbert, like Donne, was capable of clear thought in conjunction with vehement feeling” (59). This fusion is not mere intellectualism; it is poetic theology shaped in the forge of prayer.

Henry Vaughan, on the other hand, emerges as a poet haunted by time and memory. If Herbert’s poetry is a rule of life, Vaughan’s is a search for lost innocence and eternal light. Bennett makes much of his longing for the divine childhood: “Like Wordsworth, Vaughan is tempted to look back to his childhood with regret” (79). This backward glance is not mere nostalgia, but part of a spiritual cosmology in which time is a veil over eternity. Vaughan’s lines from The Evening-Watch—“Dayes, and hours are Blinds”—parallel Donne’s view that “the houres, dates, months .. are the rags of time” (87). Yet where Donne presses forward in dialectic and Herbert submits in devotion, Vaughan looks through time toward the invisible: “Vaughan’s arguments were ingenious elaborations of ‘occult resemblances’” (76). He searches for a sacramental coherence, one wherein “occult” does not mean secretive, but sacred—mystically real.

What Bennett appreciates in Vaughan is his ability to assimilate Donne’s style without imitation. “Vaughan has been able to assimilate the influence of Donne, just as Herbert, with his different outlook and temperament, had assimilated it” (87). His poems speak “familiarly of ultimate things” (86)—a high praise, and perhaps the most distinct mark of metaphysical poetry in Bennett’s estimation. The philosophical is not abstracted; it is made intimate, almost tactile. Time, memory, and longing are drawn into the devotional register, and poetry becomes a means of discerning the eternal in the temporal.

With Richard Crashaw, we enter more turbulent waters. If Herbert is measured and Vaughan yearning, Crashaw is ecstatic. Bennett sees his poetry as driven less by idea than by intensity: “Crashaw’s images arise directly out of his emotional needs” (104). His language is lush, almost baroque, a poetic incense that obscures as much as it reveals. But this too is a theological decision. The sensory overload of Crashaw’s verse, his embrace of Marian devotion and saintly ecstasies, comes from a different root than Donne’s rational pulse. His Catholicism—especially given his father’s fierce anti-papal Protestantism (91)—infuses his poetry with sacramental excess. Bennett resists the temptation to dismiss him for his extravagance. Instead, she sees him as working from a different mode of metaphysical unity: not dialectic, but devotion; not analogy, but adoration.

Though she writes more briefly about Crashaw than about Herbert or Vaughan, Bennett does not neglect his distinct contribution to the metaphysical tradition. What he lacks in analytical detachment he makes up for in religious fervor and sensory immediacy. He shares the same aim: to bring the concrete and the sublime into harmony, but his method is incarnational rather than logical. Where Herbert and Donne argue and order, Crashaw simply pours out—and this too is poetry of the intellect, though it bypasses the ear and strikes the heart.

In her postscript on religious poetry, Bennett offers what might serve as an epilogue to her readings of all three. “It seems, as so often in Donne’s poems, that one law is at work in all experience. The same flame that lights the intellect warms the heart; mathematics and love obey the same principle” (135). This sentence, so deeply metaphysical in its implications, captures the common root of the otherwise varied expressions of Herbert’s discipline, Vaughan’s yearning, and Crashaw’s passion. Their unity lies not in similarity of tone or form, but in shared conviction: that the divine is not merely an object of belief but the atmosphere of being—and poetry, the act of breathing it in.

Bennett’s concluding claim affirms this unity: “The poets who best understood their intention were religious poets” (136). That is, the metaphysical impulse—this drive to link intellect with passion, the visible with the invisible, the broken with the whole—finds its natural end in devotion. Through Bennett’s eyes, we see these poets not only as masters of technique or inventors of image, but as seekers of God, and poetry their means of pilgrimage.