Fragment

by Amy Lowell
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.