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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.
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