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(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
10 Life with disgrace,
Till God’s own smile came out:
That was thy face!