To a Water Lily

I. To thee, O Sister of the Forest and the Night, I sing.

Thou dost ever bloom beneath the moist Of hidden wane, a tender still, Bending in the murmuring tide; A petal soft as sand, Nestling within the leafy press, With a heart that should unfold and burst, like The voice of angels sent to bless.

II. O! The tender sighing odors of thy brook-wash’d stem, The glimmer in the depths of thee, O! The lisping murmur of the tide.

I have sought in every place The bliss which is not mine, But it seems to mock my oftest dreams, And here, sweet bud, I rest, henceforth intertwining
With the weave of thee.

• Robert Buchanan