A Boy's Will/Rose Pogonias

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A saturated meadow,
     Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
    Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
    And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,—
    A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning,
   As the sun s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
   A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
   Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
   That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
   Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
   That place might be forgot;

Or if not all so favoured,
    Obtain such grace of hours,
That none should mow the grass there
    While so confused with flowers.