THE LILY'S WHISPER.
87
THE LILY'S WHISPER.
"Bow down thy head, thou born of clay,—
Bow down thy head to me,"
A drooping Lily seemed to say.
As sank the footsteps of the day,
Upon the grassy lea.
Its dewy lips to mine I prest,
And drank its stifled sigh,
A tear-drop lay within its breast,—
"Hast thou a woe to be confess'd,
Thou favorite of the sky?"
"Two buds beside my heart awoke.
More pure than opening day,—
But lo! a hand with sudden stroke
From my embrace those idols broke,
And bore them hence away."
