TWAIN.
Once they were one, as the light is, Whose colors are seven,Whose source is the ancient of ancients, Whose splendor fills heaven.
And as blossoms are bright in the sunshine, Birds build, and bees murmur,So all things took root in their gladness, Grew greater and firmer.
But now! Have you looked on two shadows Two storm-clouds are urgingOver wastes of disaster and ruin That tempests are scourging?
Ah, as utterly twain as such shadows Are they, in whose gladnessAll things that were glad now are fallen The wreck of their madness!
