The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

I like not lady-slippers, Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Not yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.

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.

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory Are human flowers!"