Amaranthine

The giantesses lift arms like the trunks of sycamores, each finger tipped with an amaranthine talon.

Ah! when the eternal morning dawns, And amaranthines shall displace the thorns […]

[…] The angelick blast Filled all the regions: from their blisful bowers Of amarantine shade, fountain or spring, By the waters of life, where’er they sat In fellowships of joy, the sons of light Hasted, resorting to the summons high

Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

“Fuchsia,” said the Doctor, “come along this evening and I’ll give you a tonic which you must make her take every day. By all that’s amaranthine you really must. […]”