The Wild Iris

That day we wandered 'mid the hills,--so loneClouds are not lonelier, the forest layIn emerald darkness round us. Many a stoneAnd gnarly root, gray-mossed, made wild our way:And many a bird the glimmering light alongShowered the golden bubbles of its song.

Then in the valley, where the brook went by,Silvering the ledges that it rippled from,--An isolated slip of fallen sky,Epitomizing heaven in its sum,--An iris bloomed--blue, as if, flower-disguised,The gaze of Spring had there materialized.

I have forgotten many things since then--Much beauty and much happiness and grief;And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men,Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief."'Tis winter now," so says each barren bough;And face and hair proclaim 'tis winter now.

I would forget the gladness of that spring!I would forget that day when she and I,Between the bird-song and the blossoming,Went hand in hand beneath the soft May sky!--Much is forgotten, yea--and yet, and yet,The things we would we never can forget.

Nor I how May then minted treasuriesOf crowfoot gold; and molded out of lightThe sorrel's cups, whose elfin chalicesOf limpid spar were streaked with rosy white:Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort,And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.

But most of all, yea, it were well for me,Me and my heart, that I forget that flower,The blue wild iris, azure fleur-de-lis,That she and I together found that hour.Its recollection can but emphasizeThe pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.