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. Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation
2. Verses Left by Mr. Pope
3. In Imitation of Chaucer
4. On the Countess of Burlington Cutting Paper
5. Prayer of St. Francis Xavier

Lola Ridge Celia ("Cherry, cherry")

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