THE ARISTOCRAT OF THE BULB GARDENS 103 



Not one of Flora's brilliant race 



A form more perfect can display ; 

 Art could not feign more simple grace, 



Nor Nature take a line away. 



Yet, rich as morn, of many a hue, 



When flushing clouds through darkness strike, 



The Tulip's petals shine in dew, 

 All beautiful, but none alike. 



