The Soul Prismatic

By George Sterling

Forlorn, as twilight saddens now the hills,
    I gaze across the dim and lonely plain
    And muse, till musing is at last a pain,
On all the voices of the countless rills,
On all the loveliness unseen that fills
    The mountains—hidden beauty lost like rain
    On wastes of the unalterable main;
Lost, as a music that the midnight stills.

God! for a heart to make it so mine own
    That I would be as crystals that accept
        Most marvelously the concealing ray;
Till on my page in splendor should be thrown
    Such revelation as of hues that slept,
        Unheeded, in the clarity of day!

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