And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
I am athirst for God, the living God.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.