The poor too often turn away unheard, From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven.
The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.
In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere
The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken.
Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.
See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!