saturated meadow,
Sunshaped 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.
here we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun's right worship is,
To Pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For through the grass was scattered
Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
e 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.
