The Girdle

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Edmund Waller (1606-1687)

That which her slender waist confin’d

Shall now my joyful temples bind;

No monarch but would give his crown

His arms might do what this has done.

 

It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,

The pale which held that lovely dear:

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,

Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there

Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair;

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round!

About Avadoro Worden

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