Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.

Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.

Thou cannot stir a flower Without troubling a star.

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.