And in the midst of all a clearer pool
Than ere reflected in its pleasant cool
The blue sky, here and there divinely peeping
Through tendril wreaths, fantastically creeping;
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower with nought of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness
To woo its own sweet image unto nearness;
Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move,
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love;