July

Some flowers are withered and some joys have died; The garden reeks with an East Indian scent From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent; The white heat pales the skies from side to side;

But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, Like starry blooms on a new firmament, White lilies float and regally abide. In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;

The lily does not feel their brazen glare. In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, no dread. Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;

She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.