Love, one day, on mischief bent,
Vowed that he would play the friar.
I must be his penitent.
His confessional the briar.
Celia in the bower lay
All the while that I was shriven,
Was she sleeping? Who shall say?
But when Love, his counsel given.
Spread his wings and upward flew,
Through the roses swung above,
Celia waked, and at her feet
Lo! I knelt, confessed of love.
(Ethel Clifford)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Sleep Poems, Sleeping PoemsBased on Keywords: shriven, celia, confessional