Classic Poem

Oh oranges, sweet oranges,
Plumpy cheeks that peep in trees,
The crabbed'st churl in all the south
Would hardly let a thirsty mouth
Gaze at ye, and long to taste,
Nor grant one golden kiss at last.
La, la, la, — la sol fa mi —
My lady looked through the orange-tree.

Yet cheeks there are, yet cheeks there are,
Sweeter — Oh good God, how far! —
That make a thirst like very death
Down to the heart through lips and breath;
And if we asked a taste of those;
The kindest owners would turn foes
O la, la — la sol fa mi —
My lady 's gone from the orange-tree.