(_Prologue to ‘The Two Poets of Croisic.’_)
Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!
Sky–what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!
World–how it walled about
Life with disgrace,
Till God’s own smile came out:
That was thy face!
