FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 



Or solitary mere, 

 Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers 



Its waters to the weir.' 



IT is the hour of noon. 

 On the soft azure overhead there floats no fleck 

 of cloud. The sun shines hot upon the meadows ; over 

 all the valley lies the scent of hay. 



But it is the hour of rest. 



Sunbrowned mowers, with faces buried in the short, 

 cool grass, lie quiet in the shadow of the trees. No 

 sound of labour rises from the fields, no stave of song, 

 no clink of whetted scythe. 



The white houses of the hillside village seem to 

 slumber in the heat, and the shadows deepen round 

 their immemorial elms. Against the haze that hangs 

 along the hill, the old tower rises, hardly seen. 



The very birds are silent, save that now and then 

 some restless white-throat sings a few brief notes, or 

 low-voiced willow-wren croons in the alder shade a 

 sleepy tune. 



