 | In Russet & Silver |  |
75
THE IRIS
Frail iris, from whose fragile sheath,
In lilac and in primrose hue,
The beakéd bud just pushes through
To greet the blackbirds and the blue,
What news from hollow worlds beneath?
In lilac and in primrose hue,
The beakéd bud just pushes through
To greet the blackbirds and the blue,
What news from hollow worlds beneath?
In strata of the kindling sod
What murmur reached you of the spring?
What proof of warmth and weft and wing
Broke through your blank imagining,
And thrilled your core with hopes of God?
What murmur reached you of the spring?
What proof of warmth and weft and wing
Broke through your blank imagining,
And thrilled your core with hopes of God?
Wak'd to a rapture unaware,
Your rootlet, iris, stirr'd with faith;
You caught the voice of Him who saith
“Spring is the vapour of my breath,
And sap the sound of answered prayer.”
Your rootlet, iris, stirr'd with faith;
You caught the voice of Him who saith
“Spring is the vapour of my breath,
And sap the sound of answered prayer.”
| In Russet & Silver | |