Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
        Or solitary mere,
    Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
        Its waters to the weir!

    Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry
        Of spindle and of loom,
    And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
        And rushing of the flame.

    Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,
        Thou dost not toil nor spin,
    But makest glad and radiant with thy presence
        The meadow and the lin.

    The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,
        And round thee throng and run
    The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
        The outlaws of the sun.

    The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
        And tilts against the field,
    And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent
        With steel-blue mail and shield.

    Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,
        Who, armed with golden rod
    And winged with the celestial azure, bearest
        The message of some God.

    Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities
        Hauntest the sylvan streams,
    Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties
        That come to us as dreams.

    O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river
        Linger to kiss thy feet!
    O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever
        The world more fair and sweet.


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