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The Tulip

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I am the tulip, Holland's choicest flower.
    The thrifty Fleming — such my loveliness —
    Pays for my perfect bulb a price no less
Than diamond. Lordly lineage is my dower.
Like to a proud Yolande in her young hour
    Of pomp and kirtle bright, upon my dress
    Of dewy crimson crossed with silver fess,
I bear the painted blazon of my power.

The gardener divine with fingers deft
    Spun golden beams of iridescent noon,
        And liquid depths of purple fashioned up,
To make for me a robe of royal weft.
    Peerless I stand — yet grieve that Nature boon
        Poured never perfume in my shining cup!