The Water-Lily

John Banister Tabb (1845–1909)

WHENCE, O fragrant form of light,

Hast thou drifted through the night,

Swanlike, to a leafy nest,

On the restless waves, at rest?

Art thou from the snowy zone

Of a mountain-summit blown,

Or the blossom of a dream,

Fashioned in the foamy stream?

Nay,—methinks the maiden moon,

When the daylight came too soon,

Fleeting from her bath to hide,

Left her garment in the tide.