TO IRIS.

IF I might build a palace, fair

With every joy of soul and sense,

And set my heart as sentry there

To guard your happy innocence —

If I might plant a hedge so strong

No creeping sorrow could writhe through,

And find my whole life not too long

To give, to make your hedge for you —

If I could teach the wandering air

To bring no sounds that were not sweet,

Could teach the earth that only fair

Untrodden flower deserved your feet:

Would I not tear the secret scroll

Where all your griefs lie closely curled,

And give your little hand control

Of all the joys of all the world?

But ah! I have no skill to raise

The palace, teach the hedge to grow;

The common airs blow through your days,

By common ways your dear feet go.

And you must twine of common flowers

The wreath that happy women wear,

And bear in desolate darkened hours

The common griefs that all men bear.

The pinions of my love I fold

Your little shoulders close about:

Ah — could my love keep out the cold

And shut the creeping sorrows out!

Rough paths will tire your darling feet,

Gray skies will weep your tears above,

While round you still, in torment, beat

The impotent wings of mother-love.