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by Amy Lowell, 1912

What is poetry?  Is it a mosaic
 Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
 Into a pattern?  Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
 Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
 Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.

Published in A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass
Tags: writing

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