The Iris

A pale and broken Iris in the mirror Of a gray cloud,--as gray as death, Slow sailing in the breath Of thunder! Like a child, that lies in terror Through the dark night, an Iris fair Trembled midway in air. The blending of its elfin hues Was as the pure enamel on The early morning dews; And gloriously they shone, Waving everyone his wing, Like a young aërial thing! That Iris came Over the shells of gold, beside The blue and waveless tide; Its girdle, of resplendent flame, Met shore and sea, afar, Like angel that shall stand On flood and land, Crown'd with a meteor star.

The sea-bird, from her snowy stone, Beheld it floating on, Like a bride that bent her way To the altar, standing lone, In some cathedral gray. The melancholy wave Started at the cry she gave, Hailing the lovely child Of the immortal sun,-- A tender and a tearful one, Bounding away, with footsteps wild!

Old Neptune on his silver bed The dazzling image threw; It laid like sunbeam on the dew, Its young tress-waving head. The god upon the shadow gazed, And silently upraised A gentle wave, that came and kiss'd Fair Iris in her holy rest. Her pearly brow grew pale: It felt the sinful fire, And from her queenly tiar She drew the veil. The sun-wing'd steeds her sacred car Wheel'd to her throne of star.