Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By HenryVan Dyke1099 The Lily of Yorrow
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Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odor o’erflowing;
Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing;
Sweet are the borders of pinks, and the blossoming grapes on the bower:
Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.
Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted,
Seeking and seeking forever, till sight of the lily is granted.
Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening?
Who can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?
Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden,
Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.
Surely to pluck it is gladness,—but they who have found it can never
Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision forever.
Turning aside from the pathway, he murmured a greeting to cheer me,—
Then he was lost in the shade, and I called, but he did not hear me.
Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow:
He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.