MEADOW LILIES. 



To the meadow, where the swallows 



Dip and soar the long day through, 

 And among the hills and hollows 



Harebells hang their cups of blue, 

 Comes a flower of dusky splendor, 



With a rare and queenly grace, 

 And a stately beauty, lent her 



By the golden August days. 



Round about her birds are singing, 

 Grasses nodding, with the bloom 



Of the passing Summer clinging 

 To each tall and slender plume ; 



Proud she stands, yet all unconscious 

 (As a princess, strong to win), 



Of the deepening shadows round her, 



And the mellow light within. 

 63 



