Some flowers are withered and some joys have died; <br />The garden reeks with an East Indian scent <br />From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent; <br />The white heat pales the skies from side to side; <br />But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, <br />Like starry blooms on a new firmament, <br />White lilies float and regally abide. <br />In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed; <br />The lily does not feel their brazen glare. <br />In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share <br />Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread. <br />Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head; <br />She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-july/
