Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd
The Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned
On its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,
Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by,
Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.
Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth
And found in every season, change of joy.
—Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve
Tho' storms might fall, when from its branching arms
The antique candelabra shed fair light