The Prism: I

A pool of broken sunbeams lay
Upon the passage-floor,
Radiant and rich, profound and gay
As ever diamond bore.

Small, flitting hands a handkerchief
Spread like a cunning trap:
Prone lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf
In the glory-gleaner's lap!

Deftly she folded up the prize,
With lovely avarice;
Like one whom having had made wise,
She bore it off in bliss.

But ah, when for her prisoned gems
She peeped, to prove them there,
No glories broken from their stems
Lay in the kerchief bare!

For still, outside the nursery door,
The bright persistency,
A molten diadem on the floor,
Lay burning wondrously.