The Evening Primrose
You know the bloom, unearthly white
That none has seen by morning light
The tender moon, alone, may bare
Its beauty to the secret air
Who'd venture past its dark retreat
Must kneel, for holy things and sweet
That blossom, mystically blown
No man may gather for his own
Nor touch it, lest it droop and fall…
Oh, I am not like that at all!