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Show J r ir. Soft as the down upon the breast PC some sweet lark, whose roundelay Gqulfl lull a weary soul to rest, The May-wind comes In glad array, The blossoms spring to life at last And hope Is in the blue above; The shadows and the snows are past The slender Iris comes to love. And so she came In beauty strange, In passion color, deep and dear And warm as Southland winds that change The Winter's frost; a voice drew near. A little voice, so low and sweet That bore a message to a heart; And turning, ran with hurried feet, And I, I love him for his art. I looked in books of poet-lore To find just what the Iris lent To that sweet language, now no more, But there was naught of sentiment And so it means the more to me, Though this may seem a song of self, In that ephemeral glimpse to see The love that ne'er was poets' pelf. And what the Iris means is this: It means the eyes before the soul Of one dear woman in whose kiss Is there encompassed all, the whole. It means the perfume of her hair, It means the pulsing of her throat A love song in the scented air As free as some wild robin's note. L'ENVOI. For want of sordid things must I Illusloned be, perhaps, who knows? For once I read a poet's cry "The thorns are thicker than the rose." TOD GOODWIN. |