The Poetry Corner

The Garden

By Thomas Campion

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. These cherries grow which none may buy, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds filled with snow. Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.