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 rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till`Cherry-ripe`themselves do ry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows d ostand,
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.
Leidis Halliki Jürma