There’s a lake in the woods where the water lilies now bloom. The path around the lake is all overgrown but the wild birds know where to find its quiet waters.
Whence, O fragrant form of light,
Hast thou drifted through the night,
Swanlike, to a leafy nest,
On the restless waves, at rest?
Art thou from the snow zone
Of a mountain-summit blown,
Or the blossom of a dream,
Fashioned in the foamy stream?
Nay, – methinks the maiden moon,
When the daylight came too soon,
Fleeting from her bath to hide,
Left her garment in the tide.
The Water Lily by John Banister Tabb, American poet (1845-1909)