THE PRISM.

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.