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.