Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,—
That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small:
But I,—whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that 's all.
DEAF AND DUMB
A GROUP BY WOOLNER
Only the prism's obstruction shows aright
The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light
Into the jewelled bow from blankest white;
So may a glory from defect arise: