GOETHE. 
And beats thy bosom faithfully, 
And art thou true, and pure as I, 
Thow’lt prize the Lily more. 
CAPTIVE. 
T 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, 
Like many a pure and beauteous maid, 
One dearer thing I know. 
PINK. 
And dearer I, the Pink, must be, 
And me thou sure dost choose, 
Or else the gard’ner ne’er for me 
Such watchful care would use; 
A crowd of leaves enriching bloom! 
And mine through life the sweet perfume, 
And all the thousand hues. 
CAPTIVE. 
The Pink can no one justly slight, 
The gard’ner’s favorite flower ; 
He sets it now beneath the light, 
Now shields it from its power. 
Yet ’tis not pomp, who o’er the rest 
In splendor shines, can make me blest “ 
It is a still, small flower. 

