Flower of Song 47 



And on many a level mead, 



And shadowing bluff that made the banks, 



We glided winding under ranks 



Of Iris, and the golden reed. 



Tennyson: In Memoriam. 



I have remembered when the winter came, 



High in my chamber in the frosty nights, 



How in the shimmering noon of summer past 



Some unrecorded beam slanted across 



The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew; 



Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind. 



The bee's long smothered hum, on the Blue Flag 



Loitering amidst the mead. 



Thoreau: Winter. 



How fresh were the Flags on the stone-studded ridge 

 That rudely supported the narrow oak bridge! 

 And that bridge, oh! how boldly and safely I ran 

 On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan! 



Eliia Cook: Old Mill-Stream. 



Lilacs and violets — woodbine and brier. 

 Pond lilies drifting up from the black mire; 

 Long files of Iris — bright gladiolus. 

 Dainty anemones, loved of yEolus. 



Wm. C. Langdon: Springtime . 



