A SATURATED meadow,
     Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
     Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
     And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,--
     A temple of the hear.

There we bowed us in the burning,
     As the sun's right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
     A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
     Yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
     That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer
     Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
     That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
     Obtain such grace of hours,
That none should mow the grass there
     While so confused with flowers.