Poem by Alexander Pope

Celia

Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen.

How cruel Celia's fate, who hence
Our heart's devotion cannot try;
Too pretty for our reverence,
Too ancient for our gallantry! 

1. Lines on Curll
2. On a Fan of the Author's Design
3. In Imitation of Chaucer
4. Universal Prayer
5. Verses Left by Mr. Pope

Lola Ridge Celia ("Cherry, cherry")

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