(44 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
CAPTIVE. 
Thy crimson bud I duly prize 
In outer robe of green ; 
For this thou’rt dear in maiden’s eye*. 
As gold and jewels sheen. 
Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow, 
And yet the flower—it is not thou, 
Whom my still wishes mean. 
LILY. 
The little rose has cause for pride, 
And upwards aye will soar; 
Vet am I held by many a brido 
The rose’s wreath before. 
And beats thy bosom faithfully, 
And art thou true, and pure as I, 
Thou’It prize the lily more. 
CAPTIVE. 
I call myself both chaste and pure, 
And pure from passions low ; 
And yet these walls my limbs immure 
In loneliness and woe. 
Though thou dost seem, in white array 4 
Like many a pure and beauteous maid, 
One dearer thing I know. 
PINK. 
And dearer I, the pink, must oe, 
And me thou sure dost choose, 
Or else the gard’ner ne’er for me 
Such watchful care would use; 
