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Updated: May 9, 2025
Alas! night never gives again What once it seizes as its prey! Till over Lethe's sullen swell, Aurora's rosy hues shall glow; And arching through the midmost hell Shine forth the lovely Iris-bow! And is there naught of her; no token No pledge from that beloved hand? To tell how love remains unbroken, How far soever be the land? Has love no link, no lightest thread, The mother to the child to bind?
Browning finds his consolation in the belief that he has come nearer to the realities of earth by discarding fancies, and that his wonder and awe are more wisely directed towards the transcendent God than towards His creatures. But in truth what the mind confers is a fact and no fancy; the loss of what Browning calls the "soul's iris-bow" is the loss of a substantial, a divine possession.
Joy to ye children of the field! Whose life each coming year renews, To your sweet cups the heaven shall yield The purest of its nectar-dews! Steeped in the light's resplendent streams, The hues that streak the Iris-bow Shall trim your blooms as with the beams The looks of young Aurora know.
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