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

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.

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

Unto us all our days are love's anniversaries, each one In turn hath ripened something of our happiness.

Beauty being the best of all we know sums up the unsearchable and secret aims of nature.

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