Love Poems from Old Guys

Yesterday we celebrated

our wedding anniversary,

and went for lunch

to a classy restaurant downtown.

We enjoyed an excellent gazpacho

and shared an unhurried meal together.

While waiting for food to arrive,

I read two old love poems to my wife,

both by Elizabethan poets.

I’m sure this identifies me as a nerd,

but that’s alright.

I think she liked them.

At least she liked them being read to her.

There is a Garden in Her Face  

Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
            There cherries grow, which none may buy,
            Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
            Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
            Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt, with eye or hand,
          Those sacred cherries to come nigh
          Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

To Celia   

Ben Jonson (1573-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
         And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
         And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
         Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
         Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
         It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
         And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
         Not of itself but thee!