  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! Psyche sits near the sea, with a butterfly perched on her finger Kray (modern). Psyche. |
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