THE LILY S WHISPER. 87 



THE LILYS WHISPER, 



&quot; Bow down thy head, thou born of clay,- 



Bow down thy head to me,&quot; 

 A drooping Lily seemed to say, 

 As sank the footsteps of the day, 



Upon the grassy lea. 



Its dewy lips to mine I prest, 



And drank its stifled sigh, 

 A tear-drop lay within its breast, 

 &quot; Hast thou a woe to be confess d, 



Thou favorite of the sky ?&quot; 



&quot; Two buds beside my heart awoke, 



More pure than opening day, 

 But lo ! a hand with sudden stroke 

 From my embrace those idols broke, 

 And bore them hence away.&quot; 



