And in her garden grow the fleur de lys,
The tall mauve iris of a sleeping clime.
Their pale, ethereal beauty seems to be
The frail and delicate breath of even-time.
And night, who stooped to kiss the pallid leaves
To that strange colour, sighing gently, grieves
For her who walks within her garden-close.
Somehow it seems, amid the evening haze,
That her garden, rather than her days,
There should be night forever, and no rose,
But only iris on their slender stalks
Along the borders of the garden-walks,
Her garden blooms with iris, and it seems
The moons are white flames, like moons in dreams