High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green turf, Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea, Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky, And, curving over them as long they lie, Beds of wild fleur-de-lys. Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far, Breaking the green like islands in the sea; Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend Dwindling over the horizon’s end,— Wild beds of fleur-de-lys. The light keen wind streams on across the lifts, Their wind of western springtime by the sea; The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir In beds of fleur-de-lys. And here and there across the smooth, low grass Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea; And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside, For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,— The beds of fleur-de-lys.
The Beds of Fleur-de-Lys
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