Transcribed from F. J. Sypher
THE IRIS
It boots not keeping back the scroll,
I know thy tender words,
(“My life, my idol, and my soul!”)
Its scented page affords.
There—give it me, that I may fling
Its fragments on the wind,
A faithless and a worthless thing
For such a fate designed.
What tho’ the Iris in my room
Bids Hope’s sweet promise live,
I take no lesson from its bloom,
I have no hope to give.
Soon, with the summer sun’s control,
Those azure leaves decay;
And yet the words on yonder scroll
Are more short-lived than they.
I care not for a love that springs
Where other fancies dwell,
The rainbow’s hue upon its wings,
The rainbow’s date as well;
By Vanity and Folly nurst:
Of happiness it dies:
It springeth from a fancy first,
And with a fancy flies.
Ay, let them prettily complain,
With graceful sorrow strive;
They should be glad of my disdain,
It keeps their love alive.
I gave the ribbon from my hair,
The blossom from my hand,
But I have not a thought to spare
For any of their band.
