There is no flower of wood or lea,
No April flower, as fair as she:
O white anemone, who hast
The wind's wild grace,
Know her a cousin of thy race,
Into whose face
A presence like the wind's hath passed.
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No Maytime flower, as fair as she:
O bluebell, tender with the blue
Of limpid skies,
Thy lineage hath kindred ties
In her, whose eyes
The heav'n' s own qualities imbue.
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No Juneday flower, as fair as she:
Rose,— odorous with beauty of
Life's first and best,—
Behold thy sister here confessed!
Whose maiden breast
Is fragrant with the dreams of love.