by: Edna St. Vincent Millay
The tired agnostic longs for prayer
more than the blest can ever do:
between the chinks in his despair,
from out his forest he peeps through
upon a clearing sunned so bright
he cups his eyeballs from its light.
He for himself who would decide
what thing is black, what thing is white
whirls with the whirling spectrum wide,
runs with the running spectrum through
Red, orange, yellow, green and blue
And purple,-turns and stays his stride
Abruptly, reaching left and right
to catch all colors into light-
but light evades him: still he stands
with rainbows streaming through his hands.
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