The lily, bowing to the breeze's play,
Is not forgetful of the sun in May.
She is his nymph, and with a servitor
She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her,
And knows her true, and loves her day by day.
XVI.
E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart!
O Lady white as lilies on the lea,
And fair as foam upon the ocean free
Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart!