When pierced hangs the dew-drop's tiny prism
By some minutest needle-ray of light,
A stain of blood or blue betrays to sight
The fervors of that white drop's secret schism;
And were the oceans all one cataclysm
Hung out betwixt the sun and farther night,
The same disparting force would spring a bright,
Wide arch of rainbow o'er the vast abysm.
And I would that the vital beam, far lined
Through space to throw its spectrum sensitive
Of worlds and suns and galaxies upon
The universe's awful wall, may find
My soul a crystal medium fit to give
Its paint of color in the throbbing dawn.
O. E. W.
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