A Calendar of Sonnets: July
Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;The garden reeks with an East Indian scentFrom 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 shareTheir dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread.Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.
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