Apparitions

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!

—from The Two Poets of Croisic