Sleep, lily on the lake,
Without one troubled dream
Thy hushed repose to break,
Until the morning beam
Shall open thy glad heart again;
To live its life apart from pain.
So still is thy repose,
So pure thy petals seem,
As heaven would here disclose
Its peace, and we might deem
A soul in each white lily lay,
Passionless, from the lands of day.
Yet but a flower thou art,
For angel ne'er or saint,
Though kept on earth apart
From every earthly taint,
A life so passionless could know,
Amid a world of human woe.