1878

I

Such a starved bank of moss
Till that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

II

Sky—what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud.
Splendid, a star!

III

World—how it walled about
Life with disgrace
Till God's own smile came out:
That was thy face!