Iris by Michael Strange White Iris, how pure, how lovely, Like a virgin In her starched lawn fete dress Iris, pallid blue, gold veined, And as if coloured from dawn chills, Or from the yellow-fingered touching Of curious starlight Purple Iris, Streaked with amethystine memories of the night, Health-glossed and firm are those ripe wings Of Oriental butterflies So in my garden Undulating ranks of Iris, Slimly holding their broad flat blooms (Like tripods of incense) Aloft towards the moist spearing Of morning sunlight.