A BIT OF SCIENCE.

By Ambrose Bierce

What! photograph in colors?‘ Tis a dream

And he who dreams it is not overwise,

If colors are vibration they but seem,

And have no being. But if Tyndall lies,

Why, come, then — photograph my lady's eyes.

Nay, friend, you can n't; the splendor of their blue,

As on my own beclouded orbs they rest,

To naught but vibratory motion's due,

As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest.

How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making

In me so uncontrollable a shaking?