Go, perjured man; and if thou e'er return
To see the small remainders in mine urn,
When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust,
And ask: where's now the colour, form and trust
Of woman's beauty? and with hand more rude
Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed:
Know I have prayed to Fury that some wind
May blow my ashes up, and strike thee blind.
The Curse. A Song
Robert Herrick
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Poem topics: beauty, trust, wind, woman, small, return, laugh, blind, dust, colour, religious, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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