50 Tall Bearded Iris 



While purple, cool, beneath the blue 

 Of that hot noontide, bravely smiled, 

 With bright and iridescent hue. 

 Whole acres of the Blue Flag flower, 

 The breathy Iris sweet and wild. 

 That floral savage unsubdued. 

 The gipsy April's gipsy child. 



Mary A. Townsend: Down the Bayou. 



The Iris was yellow, the moon was pale. 

 In the air it was stiller than snow. 

 There was even light through the vale. 



But a vaporous sheet 



Clung about my feet. 

 And I dared no further go. 

 I had passed the pond, I could see the stile, 

 The path was plain for more than a mile. 

 Yet I dared no further go. 



The Iris-beds shone in my face, when, whist! 



A noiseless music began to blow, 



A music that moved through the mist. 



That had not begun. 



Would never be done — 

 With that music I must go: 

 And I found myself in the heart of the tune. 

 Wheeling around to the whirr of the moon. 

 With the sheets of mist below. 



In my hands how warm were the little hands, 

 Strange little hands that I did not know; 

 I did not think of the elvan bands. 



Nor of anything 



In that whirling ring — 



