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Is not this lily pure?
What fuller can procure
A white so perfect, spotless clear
read more
Is not this lily pure?
What fuller can procure
A white so perfect, spotless clear
As in this flower doth appear?
"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory
Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How read more
"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory
Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!"
Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets!
Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets!
I wish I were the lily's leaf
To fade upon that bosom warm,
Content to wither, pale read more
I wish I were the lily's leaf
To fade upon that bosom warm,
Content to wither, pale and brief,
The trophy of thy paler form.
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the
field, how they grow; they toil not, read more
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the
field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was
not arrayed like one of these.
But lilies, stolen from grassy mold,
No more curled state unfold,
Translated to a vase of gold;
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But lilies, stolen from grassy mold,
No more curled state unfold,
Translated to a vase of gold;
In burning throne though they keep still
Serenities unthawed and chill.
. . . Purple lilies Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
. . . Purple lilies Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and read more
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Like the lily
That once was mistress of the field and flourished,
I'll hang my head and read more
Like the lily
That once was mistress of the field and flourished,
I'll hang my head and perish.
