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William Habington (Уильям Хабингтон) To Roses in the Bosom of Castara YE blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts-- For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests. Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than i' th' open field. In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath!-- Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death. Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulchre shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb Whose breast hath marble been to me. William Habington's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1248 |
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