THE LILY.
The stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin’s flow’ry vale:
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,
Slow waving to the gale.
“Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,
“Nor wake me with thy sighing;
The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.
“To-morrow shall the traveler come
Who late beheld me blooming;
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.