To Roses in the Bosom of Castara
YE blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts--
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
Are sweeter than i' th' open field.
In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
Whose breast hath marble been to me.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (To Roses in the Bosom of Castara by William Habington )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- The Friday Night Fights, Ronald Wallace
- 'You Can't Write a Poem About McDonald's', Ronald Wallace
- King of Pop, Rohit Sapra
- Scamp, Phil Soar
- Blessings, Ronald Wallace
- heart, laxami Cards
- The Facts Of Life, Ronald Wallace
- The Fat of the Land, Ronald Wallace
- Cello, Phil Soar
- In Praise of Winter, Ronald Wallace