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...SPAIN IN AMERICA by GEORGE SANTAYANA THALATTA! THALATTA!; CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND by JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN CHAMBER MUSIC: 1 by JAMES JOYCE THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW BEREAVED by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 19. AL-FATTA'H by EDWIN ARNOLD DESCRIBES THE PLACE WHERE CYNTHIA IS SPORTING HERSELF by PHILIP AYRES |