Apparitions

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

© Robert Browning