"Once a pallid vestal doubted truth in blue; Listed red as ruin, Harried every hue;Barracaded vision, garbed herself in sighs; Ridiculed the birth marks Of the butterfliesDormant and disdainful, Never could she see Why the golden powder Decorates the bee;Why a summer pasture Lends itself to paint; Why love unappareled Still remains the saint.Finally she faltered; Saw at last forsooth, Every gaudy color Is a bit of truth."