A DEAD LILY.

The South had saluted her mouth Till her mouth was sweet with the South.

And the North with his breathings low Made the blood in her veins like his snow.

And the West with his smiles and his art Poured his honey of life in her heart.

And the East had in whisperings told His secrets more precious than gold.

So she grew to a beautiful thought Which a godhead of love had wrought.

As strange how the power begot it As why—but to kill it and rot it.