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.
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Comments about this poem (To Roses in the Bosom of Castara by William Habington )
(1644 - 1694)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Elinor Morton Wylie
(7 September 1885 – 16 December 1928)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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