Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire, Thy joyful harvest may begin; If age approach a little nigher, 'Twill be too late to get it in. Cold winter storms lay standing corn, Which once too ripe will never rise, And lovers wish themselves unborn, When all their joys lie in their eyes. Then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss. Shall beauty shale upon the ground? If age bereave us of this bliss, Then will no more such sport be found. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JABBERWOCKY by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: PAUL REVERE'S RIDE [APRIL 1775] by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW LES HIBOUX by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE RESURRECTION SONG by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES NOT TOO UNIMPORTANT by BERTON BRALEY PERPLEXED MUSIC by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A LETTER, ON HIS DEPARTURE FORM LONDON; TO R.L., ESQ. by JOHN BYROM |