by Walter Adolphe Roberts (1878-1962)
“GRAY are the gardens of our Celtic lands,
Dreaming and gray,
Tended by the devotion of pale hands,
On barren crags, or by disastrous sands […]
Scarcely one understands that regal, rare,
Bravely the tiger lily blossoms there,
Bravely apart […]
We do not long for tropic pageantry,
Yet surge with love to see
The tiger lily’s muted ecstasy.
Watered by mist and lashed by wind-blown rime,
She is no alien thing; but vivid, free […]
It is in vain they worship her who knows
Pity nor pride.
Their petals WHIRL down every wind that goes
South to the palms or northward to the snows,
Mourning they died
So distant from her side.
But the brave tiger lily blossoms on,
Never to be undone.”