Each to crown a festal
Rarest under the sun.

One lily stooped to the brooklet,
Her face she knew was fair,
And the face of flowing water
Mirrored her image there.

A hand upraised in envy,
Or carelessness, or jest,
Flung from the turbid water,
Mud, on the lily's breast.

And all the proud, white lilies
Turned their faces away,
And nobody plucked that lily,
And day, and night, and day

She wept for her ruined beauty:
And the dew-drops, and the rain,
Touched with her tears, in pity
Fell on the muddy stain.

Still stood she in her grieving
Day, and night, and day;
Nor tears, nor dew, nor rain-drops,
Could fade the stain away.

Pining in desolation,
Shunned by each of her kind,