Gentle flower, young April’s pride,
Say not Nature hath denied
Thee her bounty or her grace,
Though thou lack the Rose’s face.
Where she spreads her carpet green
There thy maiden form is seen,
Drest in robes of purest white,
Ever constant in her sight,
But at will to wanton wild,
Like a playful darling child.
Thee she tends in summer days,
And the nibbling ewes that graze
Spare to crop her favourite:
And the Fairies, when by night
Their green paths they quaintly tread,
Walk not o’er thy sleeping head.