| |
| THE ORANGE hue of the rainbow | |
| Is not so deep as thine; | |
| More rich than a golden goblet | |
| Influshing with sun-lit wine. | |
| |
| On its calyx of pink thy corolla | 5 |
| Catches sheen from the passing sun, | |
| As if powder of pearls were dusted | |
| And gleamed thy soft gold upon. | |
| |
| Of a truth, the dainty fay-maidens | |
| Must have crimped thine edge so thin | 10 |
| Alike to some fairyland pattern, | |
| On thy stamen for golden pin. | |
| |
| Deep down in the cup of thy petals | |
| One spot of a purple stain, | |
| Where the elves forgot in their revels | 15 |
| The last bright drop to drain. | |
| |
| As the scintillant dust of amber | |
| In the sun does thy pollen shine; | |
| Such powder Queen Mab might covet | |
| To burnish her locks divine. | 20 |
| |
| At dusk thou modestly closest | |
| Thy petals with jealous fold; | |
| All night thou cosily sleepest | |
| In a tent of the cloth of gold. | |
| |
