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a saturated meadow,
sun-shaped 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.

there we bowed us in the burning,
as the sun's right worship is,
to pick where none could miss them
a thousand orchises;
for though the grass was scattered,
yet ever second spear
seemed tipped with wings of color
that tinged the atmosphere.

we raised a simple prayer
before we left the spot,
that in the general mowing
that place might be forgot;
or if not all so favored,
obtain such grace of hours
that none should mow the grass there
while so confused with flowers.