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 heat.

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.