Their language was an essence,
Yet clearer than a bird's;
And from it grew a presence
As music grows from words.
A spirit born of silence
And chastity and dew
Among Elysian islands
Were not more white to view.
A spirit born of fire
And holiness and snow
Within the Heavens' desire,
Were not more pure to know.
He smiled amid them lifting
Pale hands of prayer and peace—
And through the moonlight, drifting,
Came words to me like these:
"We are His lilies, lilies,
Whose praises aye we sing!
We are the lilies, lilies
Of Christ our Lord and King!"
A LEGEND OF THE LILY.
Pale as a star that shines through rain
Her face was seen at the window-pane,
Her sad, frail face that watched in vain.
The face of a girl whose brow was wan,
To whom the kind sun spoke at dawn,
And a star and the moon when the day was gone.