Horace, Book I. Ode XXXVIII.
Boy, I hate their empty shows,
Persian garlands I detest,
Bring not me the late-blown rose,
Lingering after all the rest.
Plainer myrtle pleases me,
Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;
Myrtle more becoming thee,
Waiting with thy master's wine.
poem by William Cowper
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.