And whiter than the flowers that lie
In wreaths about thy sunny brow.
The sweetest rose that ever spent
Its balmy store of scented bliss
About thy locks, or gently bent
Above thy bow’r, had ne’er the scent
That lies enshrined, my soul, in this.
Oh for a name, my gentle girl,
That mortals fittingly may call
This matchless rose, of flowers the pearl!—