The Queen of all the garden close:
And Roses from the hedgerow wild,
Behind their thorns that faintly smiled:
And from the cressy brook’s green side,
“Forget-me-Not,” a small voice cried.
Here stately Lilies pale and proud,
In vesture pure as summer cloud;
Or, burning like an orange flame,
With torches borne aloft they came.
The Monk that wears the Hood of blue,