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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Experience · #2136649
To a maiden smug, gloating on her suitors. Me thinks her head must be near to burst! (cm)
prithee look whereon The Queen doth pick
her pricks from off the rose’s stem
by count some seventeen of them
and all like horns of little beasties trained
to nuzzle at her finger’s grace
that she might for her pleasure
pluck them from their place
and make of each a treasure

kept forever in the bloom

tell her then warm whispered breath of spring
were I among that blessed brood
‘twould mean my greatest gratitude
to have her save me for the last
and likely by such virtue
reap a closing moment’s extra care
where magic may subdue
the end which lingers there

kept forever in the bloom
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