To a Lily

Go bow thy head in gentle spite, Thou lily white, For she who spies thee waving here, With thee in beauty can compare As day with night. Soft are thy leaves and white: her arms Boast whiter charms. Thy stem prone bent with loveliness Of maiden grace possesseth less: Therein she charms. Thou in thy lake dost see Thyself: so she Beholds her image in her eyes Reflected. Thus did Venus rise From out the sea. Inconsolate, bloom not again. Thou rival vain Of her whose charms have thine outdone, Whose purity might spot the sun, And make thy leaf a stain.

Collection: 
English
James Matthew Legare

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