  My soul and I went walking Beneath the moon of Spring; The lilies pale were talking, Were faintly murmuring. From dimly moonlit places They thrust long throats of white, And lovely lifted faces Of fragrant snow and light. Their language was an essence, Yet clearer than a bird's; And from it grew a presence As music grows from words. A spirit born of silence And chastity and dew Among Elysian islands Were not more white to view. A spirit born of fire And holiness and snow Within the Heavens' desire, Were not more pure to know. He smiled amid them lifting Pale hands of prayer and peace— And through the moonlight, drifting, Came words to me like these: "We are His lilies, lilies, Whose praises aye we sing! We are the lilies, lilies Of Christ our Lord and King!" |
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