Xvii

A flaw Do you account i' the lily, of lands which travellers know, That, just as golden gloom supersedes Northern snow I' the chalice, so, about each pistil, spice is packed,-- Deliriously-drugged scent, in lieu of odor lacked, With us, by bee and moth, their banquet to enhance At morn and eve, when dew, the chilly sustenance, Needs mixture of some chaste and temperate perfume? I ask, is she in fault who guards such golden gloom, Such dear and damning scent, by who cares what devices, And takes the idle life of insects she entices When, drowned to heart's desire, they satiate the inside O' the lily, mark her wealth and manifest her pride?