Classic Poem

Those parched lips I'd rather press
Than richest fruit, that brightly glowing
Hangs in tempting lusciousness,
Where the genial gales are blowing!

I'd rather sit from hour to hour
Lulling thy griefs and cares to rest,
Than lie in soft Arcadian bower
By Zephyrs fanned, with roses drest!

I'd rather hold that hand in mine,
And watch my Henry's languid eye,
Than like a ballroom beauty shine
'Mid song and dance and revelry.