Burned Butterflies

'If twere the time of lilies,

Or of the crimson rose,

I'd pluck them in the fields for you,

Or my poor garden close:

Small gift for you so rare.

But I can find no lilies,

Green herbs are all I bring.

Yet love makes vetches roses,

And in their shadowing

Hide violets as fair.

For royal is their purple,

And fragrant is their breath,

And to one sweet and royal,

Their fragrance witnesseth

Beauty abiding there.'
- to the lady radegund, with violets