48 Tall Bearded Iris 



Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 



Or solitary mere, 



Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers 



Its waters to the weir! 



Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry 

 Of spindle and of loom, 



And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry 

 And rushing of the flume. 



Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance. 

 Thou dost not toil nor spin, 



But makest glad and radiant with they presence 

 The meadow and the lin. 



The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, 

 And round thee throng and run 

 The rushes, the green yeoman of thy manor, 

 The outlaws of the sun. 



The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, 

 And tilts against the field, 



And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent 

 With steel-blue mail and shield. 



Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, 

 Who, armed with golden rod 

 And winged with the celestial azure, bearest 

 The message of some God. 



Thou are the Muse, who far from crowded cities 

 Hauntest the sylvan streams, 

 Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties, 

 That come to us as dreams. 





