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!
Public domain. Source: PoetryDB. Reproduced verbatim; see theanthology for the full collection.