JUNE 123 



hollows where the iris are blooming. Tens of 

 thousands of them stand there in the warm 

 sunshine. Some of the flowers are as deep 

 in colour as the darkest violets, some are as 

 pale as the faintest harebells. When the wind 

 ruffles the hollow, or when, after a passing 

 cloud is gone, the sun shines suddenly into it, 

 there is a wonderful joy of colour. Later, I 

 know, the fringed orchids will hold up tall 

 candles of white, or orange, or pale lilac, 

 among the heavy-headed pitcher plants, and 

 later still, among the white boneset and purple 

 asters and marsh golden rod, tall cardinal 

 flowers will glow, and fringed gentians will 

 haunt the silence of the marsh edge ; but the 

 June iris day is a day by itself. 



In gardens now white lilies are ablow. 

 Long rows of them stand forth in the virginal 

 purity of dewy mornings as they stood in the 

 garden of Mary, who held a stalk of them 

 against her breast as she bent her head to 

 listen to the Angel of the Annunciation. I 

 think much about lilies. I do not put my 

 thoughts into words, because I cannot. 



Yet even without trying to set down my 

 lily-dreams I may try to tell of an old lily 



