She is an iris, Dark purple, pale rose, Under the gnarled boughs That shatter their stars of bloom. She waves delicately With the movement of the tree. Of what is she dreaming? Of long nights lit with orange lanterns, Of wine cups and compliments and kisses of the two-sword men. And of dawn when weary sleepers Lie outstretched on the mats of the palace, And of the iris stalk that is broken in the fountain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHN ERICSSON DAY MEMORIAL, 1918 by CARL SANDBURG THIRTY BOB A WEEK by JOHN DAVIDSON BALLAD by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A SONG FROM THE COPTIC by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE THE BRITISH CHURCH by GEORGE HERBERT GO DOWN DEATH; A FUNERAL SERMON by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND [SEPTEMBER 17, 1862] by GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP |