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 heat. <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 Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rose-pogonias/
