Say, what impels me, pure and spotless flower,
To view thee with a secret sympathy?
—Is there some living spirit shrined in thee?
That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower,
Endows thee with some strange, mysterious
power,
Waking high thoughts?—As there perchance
might be
Some angel-form of truth and purity,
Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour?