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.