The Lily
This is the lily, Loosed from her beauty Of white spire, infinite, That shivers southwards down The dry mossy stones That flaunt in Her lilied frailty.
She weeps alone: For the water-foot waits In her heart of purity. She cries from her beauty, Dust, lily, Full-fingered folds of sun.
Be thou lily-water, In the root of sleep Slumbering forth — It breaks upon the reeds Backwards against the basking,— And the golden air Blows about her — Of every weight of fragrance, The deadness of things, Lies at the base of the lily.
- Richard Aldington