(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!