Apparitions
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.
Robert Browning.