Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
       &nbsp Or solitary mere,
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
       &nbsp Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry
       &nbsp Of spindle and of loom,
And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
       &nbsp And rushing of the flame.

Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,
       &nbsp Thou dost not toil nor spin,
But makest glad and radiant with thy presence
       &nbsp The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,
       &nbsp And round thee throng and run
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
       &nbsp The outlaws of the sun.

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
       &nbsp And tilts against the field,
And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent
       &nbsp With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,
       &nbsp Who, armed with golden rod
And winged with the celestial azure, bearest
       &nbsp The message of some God.
Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities
       &nbsp Hauntest the sylvan streams,
Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties
       &nbsp That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river
       &nbsp Linger to kiss thy feet!
O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever
       &nbsp The world more fair and sweet.