My soul and I went walking
Beneath the moon of Spring;
The lilies pale were talking,
Were faintly murmuring.
From dimly moonlit places
They thrust long throats of white,
And lovely lifted faces
Of fragrant snow and light.
Their language was an essence,
Yet clearer than a bird's;
And from it grew a presence
As music grows from words.
A spirit born of silence
And chastity and dew
Among Elysian islands
Were not more white to view.
A spirit born of fire
And holiness and snow
Within the Heavens' desire,
Were not more pure to know.
He smiled amid them lifting
Pale hands of prayer and peace—
And through the moonlight, drifting,
Came words to me like these:
"We are His lilies, lilies,
Whose praises aye we sing!
We are the lilies, lilies
Of Christ our Lord and King!"