TO AN IRIS 83 



Wert thou not glad to worship 

 With some blond Paphian boy, 



Illumined by new knowledge 

 And intimate with joy ? 



And did not the Allmother 

 Smile in the hushed dim light, 



Hearing thy stifled laughter 

 Disturb her holy rite ? 



Ah, well thou must have served her 



In wise and gracious ways, 

 With more than vestal fervour, 



A loved one all thy days ! 



And dost thou, then, revisit 



Our borders at her will, 

 Child of the sultry rapture, 



Waif of the Orient still ? 



Because thy love was fearless 

 And fond and strong and free, 



Art thou not her last witness 

 To our apostasy ? 



Just at the height of summer, 



The joy-days of the year, 

 She bids, for our reproval, 



Thy radiance appear. 



Oh, Iris, let thy spirit 



Enkindle our gross clay, 

 Bring back the lost earth-passion 



For beauty to our day ! 



