Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.

Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets!

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

We are Lilies fair, The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said, "Lo! my thoughts of white." - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt),

Very whitely still The lilies of our lives may reassure Their blossoms from their roots, accessible Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer; Growing straight out of man's reach, on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

And lilies white, prepared to touch The whitest thought, nor soil it much, Of dreamer turned to lover.