  THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that 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 rose-buds fill’d with snow; Yet them no peer or prince may buy, Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh,— Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry! Richard Allison. |
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