Flower Garden

In which I go overboard and compare my muse to many flowers.

I have it! My lady is a lily fair,
With her white throat and dark hair
Or is she a cherry blossom, delicate yet wild?
No, no, such would say a Japanese poet-child.
I'd liken her to a rose, but Burns already did that
My lady is like a sweetly blossoming lilac! In fact,
She's subtler, more like a lilac-scented handkerchief
Than that dolorous and heavily perfumed flower of grief
Yet indeed, is there not a sadness in her eyes? My lady's rue,
Herb of grace, whose scent Magdalene loved in her sorrow
And yet I think her more of a violet, ever true
To her charmingly girlish fancy and maidenly virtues
From Ophelia's bouquet, the forsaken daisy
Resembles my lady: unhappy love...but that's just me
My lady is the whole garden of flowers,
With spring's blossoms hanging in bowers.