She holds a lily in her hand, Where long ranks of Angels stand; A silver lily for her wand. All her hair falls sweeping down, Her hair that is a golden brown; A crown beneath her golden crown. Blooms a rose-bush at her knee, Good to smell and good to see; It bears a rose for her, for me: Her rose a blossom richly grown, My rose a bud not fully blown But sure one day to be mine own. |