Helen Gray Cone


A lily grew in the tangle,
In a flame red garment dressed,
And many a ruby spangle
Besprinkled her tawny breast.

And the silken moth sailed by her
With a swift and a snow-white sail;
Not a gilt-girt bee came nigh her,
Nor a fly in his gay green mail.

And the bronze-brown wings and the golden,
O’er the billowing meadows blown,
Were still as by magic holden
From the lily that flamed alone;

Till over the fragrant tangle
A wanderer winging went,
And with many a ruby spangle
Were his tawny vans besprent.
And he hovered one moment stilly
O’er the thicket, her mazy bower,
Then he sank to the heart of the lily,
And they seemed but a single flower.