The Lily of the Valley

Some flowers there are that rear their heads on high.
The gorgeous products of a burning sky,
That rush upon the eye with garish bloom.
And make the senses drunk with high perfume.
Not such art thou, sweet Lily of the Vale !
So lovely, small, and delicately pale, —
We might believe, if such fond faith were ours.
As sees humanity in trees and flowers,
That thou wert once a maiden, meek and good.
That pined away beneath her native wood
For very fear of her own loveliness,
And died of love she never would confess.