Seek ye the fairest lily of the field,
The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies,
The fairest rose that ever morn revealed,
And Love will find—from other eyes concealed—
A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes.
List ye the lark that warbles to the morn,
The sweetest note that linnet ever sung,
Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn,
And Love will list—and laugh your lute to scorn—
A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue.
Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown
From flowering orange-groves to passing ships;
Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon,
And Love will find—and claim it all his own—
A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips.
Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down,
The silken floss that baby birdling warms,
Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown,
And Love will find—when they are all alone—
A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.