The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,Moves all the labouring surges of the world.

Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.

But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.

In all change, well looked into, the germinal good out-veils the apparent ill.

There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise.

Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

Oh invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, o world unknowable, we know thee.