A world of flowers. You may see them born,
On any day in April, moist or dry,
As bright as are the Heavens that look on them:
Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
As yellow as the sunrise; others red
As day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.
And now, of all fair flowers, which lovest thou best?
The Rose? She is a queen more wonderful
Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones: