Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from Flowers of Loveliness, 1838/The Water-Lily
WATER-LILIES
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From the review in The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1837 Page 667-668
The Water-Lily.
Not 'mid the soil and the shadow of earth,
Have we our home, or take we our birth;
Keep ye your valleys that breathe of the rose,
When bendeth the myrtle; we reck not of those.
Low in the waters our palace we make,
Where sweepeth the river, or spreadeth the lake;
And the willow that bends with its green hair above,
Like a lady in grief, is the tree that we love.
At noontide we sleep to the music of shells,
That we bring from the depths of the sea to our cells;
Our cells that are roofed with the crystal, whose light
Is like the young moon’s, on her first summer night.
Strange plants are around us, whose delicate leaves
No hue from the sunshine or moonlight receives;
Yet rich are the colours, as those that are given
When the first hours of April are azure in heaven.
There branches the coral, as red as the lip
Of the earliest rose that the honey-bees sip;
And above are encrusted a myriad of spars,
With the hues of the rainbow, the light of the stars.
Our streams are like mirrors, reflecting the ranks
Of the wild flowers that blossom and bend on our banks;
We give back their beauty—the face is as fair
Of the rose in the wave, as it is on the air.
But the flower that we choose in our tresses to bind,—
How long are those tresses when flung on the wind!—
Is the lily, that floats on the shadowy tide,
With a white cup that treasures its gold-dust inside.
The pearls that lie under the ocean are white,
Like a bride’s sunny weeping, whose tears are half light,
And pure as the fall of the snow's early showers;
But they are not more fair nor more pure than these flowers.
We float down the wave when the waters are red
With the blushes that morning around her hath shed;
And we wring from our long hair the damps of the night,
The dew-drops that shine on the grass are less bright.
But alone, in the night, with the planets above,
Or the silvery moon, is the hour that we love;
Cold, pale is the light, and it suits with our doom,
For our heart has no warmth, and our cheek has no bloom.
The night wind then bears our sad singing along;
Ah! wo unto him who shall listen the song!
There is love in the music that floats on the air;
But the mortal who seeks us seeks death and despair.