Amy Lowell

The Weather-Cock points South

I put your leaves aside,
One by one:
The stiff, broad outer leaves; 
The smaller ones,
Pleasant to touch, veined with purple;
The glazed inner leaves. 
One by one
I parted you from your leaves,
Until you stood like a white flower
Swaying slightly in the evening wind.

White flower,
Flower of wax, of jade, of unstreaked agate;
Flower with surfaces of ice,
With shadows faintly crimson.
Where in all the garden is there such a flower?
The stars crowd through the lilac leaves
To look at you. 
The low moon brightens you with silver.

The bud is more than the calyx.
There is nothing to equal a white bud,
Of no colour, and of all,
Burnished by moonlight, 
Thrust upon a softly-swinging wind.