Classic Poem

This peach is pink with such a pink
—As suits the peach divinely;
The cunning color rarely spread
—Fades to the yellow finely;
But where to spy the truest pink
Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.

The snowdrop, child of windy March,
—Doth glory in her whiteness;
Her golden neighbors, crocuses,
—Unenvious praise her brightness!
But I do know where, out of sight,
My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.