John Keats - There is a garden in her face

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly 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. — There is a garden in her face