This iridescent bubble a child might blow
Out of its brazen pipe to hold the sun—
What strange toy is it? In my hand it lies
Cold and inert, its puny artery—
That curling cobweb film—ashen and dead.
But now—a twist or two—let it but touch
The hem, far trailing, of my lady’s robe,
And look, the burning life-blood of the stars
Leaps to its heart, and glows against the dark,
Kindling the world.