WHITE ORCHIDS. 



I said again : " I will not go. This way- 

 Is not for mortal feet." Again the guide 

 But smiled, and I again could l)ut obey. 

 The path grew narrow ; thundering by its side, 

 As loud as ocean at its highest tide, 

 A river rushed, all black, and green, and white, 

 A boiling stream of molten malachite. 



Sudden I heard a joyous cry, " Behold, behold !" 

 And, smiling still on me, the good guide turned. 

 And pointed where broad, sunny fields unrolled 

 And spread like banners, green, so green it burned, 

 And lit the air like red ; and blue which yearned 

 From all the lofty dome of sky, and bent 

 And folded low and circling like a tent ; 



And forests ranged like armies, round and round, 



At feet of mountains of eternal snow ; 



And valleys all alive with happy sound ; 



The song of birds ; swift brook, delicious flow; 



The mystic hum of million things that grow ; 



The stir of men ; and gladdening every way, 



Voices of little children at their play. 



