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.