The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.