The Iris-Bridge

That morn when men to one another said “Browning is dead in Venice,” ere the thrill Of the tidings touched us, lo! our eyes beheld Strange portent flashed upon the winter sky. From hill to hill the jewel-splendid span Of the light rainbow leaped, transcendent joy, The brave bright delicate bridge, frail as a flower, Yet firm enough to bear the feet of Hope. --“Browning is dead,” they told us; but our thoughts Followed along the aerial sunbuilt arch The onward quest of that still ardent soul. Could he be holden of death, who built indeed, Flinging his lyric faith across the vast, An iris-bridge for man while words endure?