That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.
—Tennyson.
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!
—Browning.