Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my love? But how his Lamps that are so christaline? Oh happy starrs that make your heavens divine: And happy Iems that admiration move. How tearm'st his golden tresses wav'd with aire? Oh lovely haire of your more-lovely Maister, Image of love, faire shape of Alablaster, Why do'st thou drive thy Lover to dispaire? How do'st thou cal the bed wher beuty grows? Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms cover The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Lover: Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to love. And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee, He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOTHER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TIME AND THE PERFUME RIVER by KAREN SWENSON LWONESOMENESS by WILLIAM BARNES ON THE BIRTH OF HIS SON by SU SHIH ODE TO WORK by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS STARRY NIGHT by KENNETH SLADE ALLING |