Ephemera (Buck)/Iris
IRIS
Iris, little flute-player, thy rosy mouth drooping, thine eyes brimming with tears, why dost thou crouch alone against the rough wall, thy reeds lying neglected in the dust?
Are they broken, the wax-tipped friends of thy song? Art thou hurt, or hungry, or weary of thy life? Has thy loved one flown away? . . .
Listen, child. In my garden are roses and a pool where thou canst wash away thy sorrow, perfumes which will delight thee and golden ribbons to bind the soft crown of thy hair. To-night and to-morrow and for many days, thou shalt play only when thou wishest and dance only when it pleases thee.
Then, when thou smilest again, I will find thee a new Belovèd, fairer and kindlier than the last; yes, truly—though I drag her to thee, shrieking and bewailing, and chain her with golden fetters to thy couch.