The rich sweet-pea, the iris blue, 
The larkspur with its peacock hue ;— 
Each one is fair, yet hold I will 
That the rose of May is fairer still. 
‘Tis grand “neath palace-walls to grow; 
To blaze where lords and ladies go; 
To hang o’er marble founts, and shine 
In modern gardens trim and fine ;— 
But the rose of May is only seen 
Where the great of other days have been. 
