Helen Hunt Jackson

A Calendar of Sonnets: July

Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
 The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
 From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
 The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
 But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,
 Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
 White lilies float and regally abide.
 In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;
 The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
 In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
 Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
 Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;
 She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.
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