The Iris
That evening, in the groves, came to me three gliding forms:—Hautia’s
heralds: the Iris mixed with nettles. Said Yoomy, “A cruel message!”
With the right hand, the second syren presented glossy, green wax-
myrtle berries, those that burn like tapers; the third, a lily of the
valley, crushed in its own broad leaf.
This done, they earnestly eyed Yoomy; who, after much pondering,
said—“I speak for Hautia; who by these berries says, I will enlighten
you.”
“Oh, give me then that light! say, where is Yillah?” and I rushed upon
the heralds.
But eluding me, they looked reproachfully at Yoomy; and seemed
offended.
“Then, I am wrong,” said Yoomy. “It is thus:—Taji, you have been
enlightened, but the lily you seek is crushed.”
Then fell my heart, and the phantoms nodded; flinging upon me
bilberries, like rose pearls, which bruised against my skin, left
stains.
Waving oleanders, they retreated.
“Harm! treachery! beware!” cried Yoomy.
Then they glided through the wood: one showering dead leaves along the
path I trod, the others gayly waving bunches of spring-crocuses,
yellow, white, and purple; and thus they vanished.
Said Yoomy, “Sad your path, but merry Hautia’s.”
“Then merry may she be, whoe’er she is; and though woe be mine, I turn
not from that to Hautia; nor ever will I woo her, though she woo me
till I die;—though Yillah never bless my eyes.”