POETRY.
THE LILY.
I DREAMED that after wandering long I came To a dark garden with frail souls for flowers; And saw the gentle lady we call Death
Pace to and fro ; above each bloom she bent, Then passed : a slumbrous sky above her rolled Cloud upon cloud : and from those human flowers A tragic odour like emotion rose.
I followed in her steps, and now she touched Some poppy that had been a dreamer frail, Or rose that was a passionate Eastern queen.
But on a sudden I implored her hand, And should have fallen : from a lily near What sweet and paining odour to my brain Darted, with delicate, unhappy smell Of trouble old and gladness far away !
I knew more surely than from any face, More certainly remembered than at words, And slowly swooning said, "'Tie she ! 'tie she !"
Then looking to that lady cold, whose face No sternness and no pity had, I said, " Lady, this flower but a little while,
0 ! but a little while, has risen here :
Have a deep care of it ! a small neglect, A brief oblivion overburdens it.
For she, that is this flower, and merely blows So strangely silent and so white, was used To be much loved, and guarded wistfully.
0 ! from this flower be never far away ! "
But she to whom I spoke moved slowly on, And as I walked beside her, I awoke.
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.
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