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.
To Roses In The Bosom Of Castara
William Habington
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Poem topics: breath, death, happy, innocent, white, field, room, bright, garden, pure, open, live, secure, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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