(_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!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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