July

Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;

The garden reeks with an East Indian scent

From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;

The white heat pales the skies from side to side;

But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,

Like starry blooms on a new firmament,

White lilies float and regally abide.

In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;

The lily does not feel their brazen glare.

In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share

Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, no dread.

Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;

She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.