Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

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

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

So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure.-- From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demureness, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture would subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.

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

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

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