White lily, vestal of the garden fair,
Thou walk’st with virtue in the morning air.
No hue of sin doth mar thy gentle face,
Thou art the emblem of a saintly grace.
The moon doth envy thee, so pale, so still,
Thy form unbent by passion, want, or will.
Yet who, in gazing, feels not longing rise?
For purity doth oft bewitch the wise.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 3:37 PM UTC
White lily, vestal of the garden fair,
Thou walk’st with virtue in the morning air.
No hue of sin doth mar thy gentle face,
Thou art the emblem of a saintly grace.
The moon doth envy thee, so pale, so still,
Thy form unbent by passion, want, or will.
Yet who, in gazing, feels not longing rise?
For purity doth oft bewitch the wise.
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