Where is, ah where! the citron bloom That threw its fragrance o'er my room? Where, white magnolia-cup entwined With pliant myrtle's ruddy rind? Julia, with you the flowers are gay, And cluster round the shortest day Little at Fiesole ye know Of holly, less of mistleto; Such as the Druid priest of yore To grim god-monsters grimly bore. Run: from her pouting infants call The musk-rose at our chapel-wall; Run, bring the violets up, that blow Along the banks of Africo; And tell them, every soul, they must Bend their coy heads and kiss my bust. Christmas is come: on such a day Give the best thoughts fair room for play, And all the Sabbath dance and sing In honour of your new-born king. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GONE by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE SONNET TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT ... MY INFANT TO ME by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE LAST MAN: SUBTERRANEAN CITY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES GRAVE OF HOWARD by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES EXTRACTS FROM VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1823 by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |