The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
Yet there are some resting-places, / Life's untroubled interludes; / Times when neither past nor future / On the soul's deep calm intrudes.
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.