Unslaked Robin J after Alexander Pope's Imitation of Abraham Cowley The Garden
Here might my Muse Pope's flowery tributes sing,
to praise great glories, Pope's poetic spring;
where opening lines parodic gems diffuse,
whose coronation needs no online views.
There Lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
win thin transparent superficial light,
and Rose and Tulips blushing dazzling gay
describe scribe's bright diversities by day.
Each painted flower powerfully below
shown mirrored beauties, poet's duties grow
to pale Narcissi on bank ranked, which, vain
transformed by mirror, gaze on themselves again.
Here agèd trees Man's foibles contemplate,
Tomatoes blush upon the dinner plate.
Here Sweet Pease rise, there vine leafed Grapes must fall,
the harvest's hope frost free or not at all.
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
Lemons transplanted from judaic line;
exceed their promise in the ripen'd store:
invest in intense farm producing more.
There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play
till drought spells ill wells slaking Robin Jay.
Will Daphne, turned to tree though once a maid,
resent Apollo's late lamented shade,
which saved her beauty from sun's invasive beam,
she seeks in vain for succour from the stream
which once preserved her virgin leaves from heat,
provided shelter from her roots to greet.
Now Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays,
and Climate Change befuddles all our days.
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