THE Iris was yellow, the moon was pale, In the air it was stiller than snow, There was even light through the vale, But a vaporous sheet Clung about my feet, And I dared no further go. I had passed the pond, I could see the stile, The path was plain for more than a mile, Yet I dared no further go. The iris-beds shone in my face, when, whist! A noiseless music began to blow, A music that moved through the mist, That had not begun, Would never be done, -- With that music I must go: And I found myself in the heart of the tune, Wheeling around to the whirr of the moon, With the sheets of the mist below. In my hands how warm were the little hands, Strange, little hands that I did not know: I did not think of the elvan bands, Nor of anything In that whirling ring -- Here a cock began to crow! The little hands dropped that had clung so tight, And I saw again by the pale dawnlight The iris-heads in a row. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN THE COWS COME HOME by AGNES E. MITCHELL A VISION UPON [THIS CONCEIT] OF THE FAERIE QUEENE (1) by WALTER RALEIGH OF MAN'S MORTALITY by SIMON WASTELL CARPE DIEM by JEAN ANTOINE DE BAIF ON THE WATERFRONT by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THUS FAR by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME by ROBERT BURNS TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. CRADLED IN FLAME by EDWARD CARPENTER |