A French Lily
Sweet Iphigenia-soul of every day,
Fair vine so trellised to the parent-stay
Thou hast no single force, no separate will,
But leaning grow'st, and, flowering, leanest still;
In that walled garden where thou dwell'st alone
Thou art the whitest blossom ever known!
Less full and ample than our English rose
Whose generous freshness floods the garden-close.
And less confiding to the gatherer's hand
Than their forget-me-not o' the Fatherland,
Yet, O French Lily, pure and grown apart,
Thee none the less I treasure next my heart!
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