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[Delduca <gr...@hv...>]

Ng as I live. SCENT OF IRISES A FAINT, sickening scent of irises
Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table A fine proud spike of
purple irises Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable To see
the class's lifted and bended faces Save in a broken pattern, amid
purple and gold and sable. I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its
breathless Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast you
With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your chin as you dipped Your
face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast you, Your own dark
mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks, Dissolved on the golden sorcery
you should not outlast. You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, You
sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above, Me, your shadow on the
bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, Me full length in the cowslips, muttering
you love; You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, You with
your face all rich, like the sheen of a dove. You are always asking, do
I remember, remember The butter-cup bog-end where the flowers rose up
And kindled you over deep with a cast of gold? You ask again, do the
healing days close up The open darkness which then drew us in, The dark
which then drank up our brimming cup. You upon the dry, dead
beech-leaves, in the fire of night Burnt like a sacrifice; you
invisible; Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! --And yes,
thank God, it still is possible The healing day