Rose Pogonias

He is no dissenter from the ritualism of nature;
 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 favoured,  Obtain such grace of hours,  That none should mow the grass there  While so confused with flowers.