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 buoyantly, above the billows’ might,
Through the storm’s breath?
Yes! link’d with such high thought,
Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie;
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought—