For a Picture of St. Dorothea

I bear a basket lined with grass;     I am so light, I am so fair,     That men must wonder as I pass     And at the basket that I bear,     Where in a newly-drawn green litter     Sweet flowers I carry, - sweets for bitter.     Lilies I shew you, lilies none,     None in Caesar's gardens blow, -     And a quince in hand, - not one     Is set upon your boughs below;     Not set, because their buds not spring;     Spring not, 'cause world is wintering.     But these were found in the East and South     Where Winter is the clime forgot. -     The dewdrop on the larkspur's mouth     O should it then be quenchd not?     In starry water-meads they drew     These drops: which be they? stars or dew?     Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze:     Rather it is the sizing moon.     Lo, linked heavens with milky ways!     That was her larkspur row. - So soon?     Sphered so fast, sweet soul? - We see     Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.