ROSES, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks, of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true; Primrose, firstborn child of Ver; Merry springtimes harbinger, With her bells dim; Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Larks-heels trim; All dear Natures children sweet Lie fore bride and bridegrooms feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence! The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pye, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly!
Posted on: Tue, 18 Mar 2014 18:12:44 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015