 | At the holy well |  |
84
THE CHRYSALIS.
Look! a chrysalis dry and old,Coffin of a worm, I hold:
'Tis no lovely thing you see—
All of beauty yet must be;
You must wait awhile, till Spring,
For the blossom, for the wing.
Call it by whatever name,
Coffin, cradle—'tis the same.
Deeper down than Science sees
In old wells of mysteries
(With her mirrored face below,
Like a wondering child's aglow),
Farther far than sagest seeks—
Far as stars that shine in creeks—
Lo, in this unlovely shell
Maskéd Miracle doth dwell,
85
God breathes and all death is birth;
At his breath and touch, in Spring,
Flutter, flower! blossom, wing!
| At the holy well | |