(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!