O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

When Death to either shall come - I pray it be first to me.

Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow.

Beauty, the eternal Spouse of the Wisdom of God and Angel of his Presence thru' all creation.