There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
The quiet sense of something lost
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.