Classic Poem

White Lily, thou who wast, unfurling wide
thy flaming spirit, brightness of the mead,
its green at dawn, its brightness in the sun,
its aery-throated snowy nightingale.

Tarnished crystal, yea, and withered gold,
the radiant light dissolved in dust of snow;
that it may seek the wandering monument,
now winged is the beauty of thy being.

Oh in exiguous silver candid flood!
In the bud of thy blooming thou didst find
an enemy scornful of thy loveliness;
and with the radiance of that ruby venom,
and with the gold, even when it was alive,
thou nowise didst redeem the debt of death.