Tiger-Lilies

Lilies, are you come!
I quail before you as your buds upswell;
It is the miracle
Of fire and sculpture in your brazen urns
That strikes me dumb, —
Fire of midsummer that burns,
And as it passes.
Flinging rich sparkles on its own clear blaze,
Wreathes with the wreathing tongues and rays,
Great tiger-lilies, of your deep-cleft masses!
It is the wonder
I am laid under
By the firm heaves
And overtumbling edges of your liberal leaves.