George Herbert and the Image of Violent Containment

More years ago than I care to remember I was in Bemerton, and having examined everything in the little church, knocked on the door of a house that I thought must be the rectory. A very pleasant lady opened the door, and I said, "Excuse me, is this the rectory where the poet George Herbert once lived?" She said, "Yes, come in. You must be one of those American English professors." She showed me all over the house. I don't remember its floor-plan, but in the intervening years, sustained by his poems, I have imagined Herbert with keys in hand going from a large room into a smaller room and then into a closet off that and standing before a chest or cabinet inside that which contains something of so great value in so small a space that it is bound to burst forth.