A saturated meadow, <br />Sun-shaped and jewel-small, <br />A circle scarcely wider <br />Than the trees around were tall; <br />Where winds were quite excluded, <br />And the air was stifling sweet <br />With the breath of many flowers, -- <br />A temple of the hear. <br /> <br />There we bowed us in the burning, <br />As the sun's right worship is, <br />To pick where none could miss them <br />A thousand orchises; <br />For though the grass was scattered, <br />yet every second spear <br />Seemed tipped with wings of color, <br />That tinged the atmosphere. <br /> <br />We raised a simple prayer <br />Before we left the spot, <br />That in the general mowing <br />That place might be forgot; <br />Or if not all so favored, <br />Obtain such grace of hours, <br />that none should mow the grass there <br />While so confused with flowers.<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rose-pogonias-2/
