A WHITE IRIS 
Tall and clothed in samite, 
Chaste and pure, 
In smooth armor,— 
Your head held high 
In its helmet 
Of silver: 
Jeanne D’Are riding 
Among the sword blades! 
—Pauline B. Barrington. 
For ‘tis the sweetest time of flowers, 
And none these moments shall reprove. 
The nightingales around thee sing 
It is the joyous feast of Spring. 
=I BknWA 
A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 
Its lovliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health and quiet breathing. 
—Keats. 
