THE WATER LILY. 
83 
Oh ! Love is most like thee. 
The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast 
’Midst Life’s dark sea. 
And faith—Oh ! is not faith 
Like thee, too, Lily ? springing into light. 
Still buoyant, above the billow’s might, 
Through the storm’s breath ? 
Yes, link’d with such high thoughts, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
Till something there of its own purity 
And peace be wrought. 
Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed, 
As from a shrine. 
\ 
