My bud begins to ope; for its sake
I seek to have her color’s flood.”
The violet whisp’rs low in the gloom:
“My root shall pierce her eyes of blue,
There shall the hue be drawn for their bloom,
Since bursts my throng of buds now too!”
“And I,” the tender lily speaks, “want
My flowers that precious gloss to own
That ’dorns her breast of snow. Pray, recant,
O Casket! Hear the plaint I moan!”