This peach is pink with such a pink 
As suits the peach divinely; 
The cunning colour rarely spread 
Fades to the yellow finely; 
But where to spy the truest pink 
Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think. 

The snowdrop, child of windy March, 
Doth glory in her whiteness; 
Her golden neighbours, crocuses, 
Unenvious praise her brightness! 
But I do know where, out of sight, 
My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.