“Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?
It is; it is that deeply-injured flower
Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweeten’d the fragrance of her spicy air;
But now, thou seemest like a bankrupt beau
Stripp’d of his gaudy hues and essences,