Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Flower-de-Luce

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.