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 brow and
your cheeks and your chin as you dipped
Your face in your marigold
bunch, to touch and contrast
Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint
lady-smocks
Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not
outlast.
You amid the bog-end’s yellow
incantation,
You
sitting in the cowslips of the meadows 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 on a dove — !
You are always asking, do I
remember, remember
The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up
And kindled you over deep with
a coat of gold?
You
ask again, do the healing days close up
The open darkness which then
drew us in,
The dark
that swallows all, and nought throws up.
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 days shall close the darkness
up
Wherein I
breathed you like a smoke or dew.
Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now,
thank God,
The
golden fire has gone, and your face is ash
Indistinguishable in the grey,
chill day,
The night
has burnt you out, at last the good
Dark fire burns on untroubled without
clash
Of you upon
the dead leaves saying me yea.