Adown the grassy hill they come, To greet me, every morn; Those little maids ( in Norman caps ) Of joy and spring-time born.
They march demurely, side by side, How many pair there be! Far as mine eye can reach, their forms In green and white I see.
Each sister wears with youthful grace Her snowy Norman cap, And in the long procession there I see no pause or gap.
And so, I watch to see them come As morn by morn I pass, The green of shimmering robe and glint Of snow within the grass.
They never speak and yet they nod A friendly greeting there, And all their beauty round me seems A fragrance in the air.
I speak to them? Oh, yes, I speak And lovingly I bid Them welcome every summer morn, Those maids with downcast lid!
They are so modest, pure and fair; They are so very sweet, I fain would linger there and call Them clustering round my feet.
Far backward in the view my eyes The slow procession see, And yet they never leave the path Nor can they speak to me.
‘ Tis the flag-lily growing tall Amid the meadow grass; The Iris, as we often call Each snowy-snooded lass.
In couples stately, there they stand As far as eye can scan, And round them waves the nodding grass As homage due from man.
They stand a line of vestals pure, Or each a sweet-faced nun; While on each snowy cap there falls The radiance of the sun.
Although the power of speech may not Be theirs in worldly phrase, They teach a lesson just as true, And just as full of praise.
In their allotted path they walk, And fill their destined end, Their beauty gladdens every eye, As down the hill they wend.
O flower-sisters, if ye make One heart in rapture rise; If ye but waken one pure thought To bloom in Paradise.
Then have your lives, though brief, as boon To mortal man been given, To draw from earth his sordid thoughts And bid them rest on Heaven!
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