And must ye pass away,
Yellow waving lilies?
Greener grow the woodland alleys,
Greener, greener every day;
Summer's coming up the valleys--
Yet ye will not stay!
I come at morn and even,
This green bank my cushion;
And I worship, in a fashion,
From the lilies up to Heaven:
God, accept my earnest passion,
Be it rudely given!
I bless the time of flowers,
And kneel with each new comer.
My heart's a temple all the Summer,
Visited through all its hours,
Choir'd by every little hummer
Of the leafy bowers.
