THE IRIS-BRIDGE
That morn when men to one another said
“Browning is dead in Venice,” ere the thrill
Of the tidings touched us, lo! our eyes beheld
Strange portent flashed upon the winter sky.
From hill to hill the jewel-splendid span
Of the light rainbow leaped, transcendent joy,
The brave bright delicate bridge, frail as a flower,
Yet firm enough to bear the feet of Hope.
—“Browning is dead,” they told us; but our thoughts
Followed along the aerial sunbuilt arch
The onward quest of that still ardent soul.
Could he be holden of death, who built indeed,
Flinging his lyric faith across the vast,
An iris-bridge for man while words endure?