On the fair tulip thou dost dote,
Thou cloth’st it in a gay and party-colored coat.
—ABRAHAM COWLEY.
Under the larch with its tassels wet,
While the early sunbeams lingered yet,
In the rosy dawn my love I met.
Under the larch when the sun was set,
He came with an April violet:
Forty years—and I have it yet.
Out of life with its fond regret,