The waterlilies floated on the still
Green bosom of the lake, yellow and white
Cups sitting on their rounded velvet pads,
Rare goblets waiting for a god to fill
With nectar for some Bacchanalian rite
And secret revelry of slim Naiads.
The trees, dark sentinels of field and hill,
Looked down, protective in their leafy might,
And urgent with unwritten Iliads.
Time paused, held by some universal will,
Waiting the miracle that reconciled
Creation with its maker. Through that hush
Came human voices, and impetuous rush,
And the sweet laughter of a happy child.