Some Flowers Are Withered And Some Joys Have Died; The Garden Reeks With An East Indian Scent From Beds Where Gillyflowers Stand Weak And Spent; The White Heat Pales The Skies From Side To Side; But In Still Lakes And Rivers, Cool, Content, Like Starry Blooms On A New Firmament, White Lilies Float And Regally Abide. In Vain The Cruel Skies Their Hot Rays Shed; The Lily Does Not Feel Their Brazen Glare. In Vain The Pallid Clouds Refuse To Share Their Dews; The Lily Feels No Thirst, No Dread. Unharmed She Lifts Her Queenly Face And Head; She Drinks Of Living Waters And Keeps Fair.