Azalea

Welcome, sweet stranger, from the gorgeous East
Nature in thee puts forth her beauteous might.

For aye array'd as for a marriage feast,
Or like an incarnation of pure light.
What man can see thee so superbly drest,
Without a thought of her whom he loves best ?

Yet when I think of her, whom I love well,
I do not think of such luxurious flowers.
Ill suited to a humble home like ours,
If you and I, my love, together dwell,
Were the rich perfume, and the luscious swell
Of herbs that emigrate from Indian bowers.

Better for us the plant that feels the showers
And the sweet sunshine, — by our mossy well.

Better be like the buttercups so many,
That in good England no one thinks of any,
While yet we grow in our own native land.

Than the Azalea, solitary, grand,
Perfuming the far banks of Alleghany,
Or withering in Australia's thirsty sand.