The Tulip

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!