The Gentianella

Pretty stranger in our gardens,
We should beg thee thousand pardons,
Long forgotten, far too long,
Never mention'd yet in song.
Strange it is, that never ditty
Ever told thee thou wert pretty :
Rondo none, nor ritornella.
Praises thee, my Gentianella.
Very well I know thee, why
Thou art not like the cloudless sky.
Nor like the virgin's melting eye.
Poets seek in fields and trees
(Quaint conceits and similes ;
But thine azure is thine own, —
Nothing like it have I known :
Seems it not of upper earth ; —
Surely it must have its birth
In the darkness far below.
Where the dark-eyed sapphires grow !
Lovely votary of the sun,
Never wishing to be won
By a vain and mortal lover,
Shrinking closely into cover.
When thy true love hath departed.
Patient, pure, and simple-hearted.
Like an exile doom'd to roam,
Not in foreign land at home, —
I will call thy azure hue
Brightest, firmest, truest blue.