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.