…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!