And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 

 Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale. 

 That the light of its tremulous bells is seen. 

 Through their pavilions of tender green. 



Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



A Bulb 



Misshapen, black, unlovely to the sight, 

 O mute companion of the murky mole. 



You must feel overjoyed to have a white, 

 Imperious, dainty lily for a soul ! 



Richard Kendall Munkittrick. 



The tuberose, with her silvery light. 



That in the gardens of Malay 

 Is called the Mistress of the Night, 

 So like a bride, scented and bright ; 

 She comes out when the sun's away. 



Thomas Moore, 



My White Chrysanthemum 



As purely white as is the drifted snow, 



More dazzling fair than summer roses are; 

 Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star. 



When winds pipe chilly and red sunsets glow. 

 Your blossoms blow. 



Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own. 

 In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies, 

 Like wholesome truth 'mid honeyed flatteries ; 



When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown. 

 You stand alone. 



Fronting the winter with a fearless grace. 

 Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill. 

 Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still, 



Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place 



A smiling face. „ r^ vj 



" Susan Coottdge. 



