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 )
- the toothless Tiger Dynasties, veeraiyah subbulakshmi
- The Spray, Akhtar Jawad
- Think and breathe, hasmukh amathalal
- Love for care, hasmukh amathalal
- Your style, hasmukh amathalal
- Sonnet: Living in Light, Dr John Celes
- The price of civilization, Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Looks matter in affection., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Pain, Robert Lansing
- मन, Aftab Alam
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