Sonnet Ccxi:

CCXI I cannot liken thee to any flower, As they of old, the master poets, chose From fancy's bed, to meetly emblem those On whom they laid their laurels as a dower. With what sweet product of the sun and shower Peer thee, whose beauty by observance grows? Too shy the violet and too bold the rose, Too pale the lily of thy garden bower. Nor in the humbler sisterhood is she That dares to look thee in thy perfect face, As earthly rival of thy airy grace. if violet, rose and lily all could be Combined in one, unfriendly eyes might trace In that, perhaps, some sorry hint of thee.