Not honey, not the south;

ah flower of purple iris,

flower of white,

or of the iris, withering the grass—

for fleck of the sun's fire,

gathers such heat and power,

that shadow-print is light,

cast through the petals

of the yellow iris flower.

Not iris—old desire—old passion—

old forgetfulness—old pain—

not this, nor any flower,

but if you turn again,

seek strength of arm and throat,

touch as the god;

neglect the lyre-note;

knowing that you shall feel,

about the frame,

[34]

no trembling of the string

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