You to the perfect rhythms of flowers and birds,

 Colors and words,

 The heart-beats of the earth,

 To be remoulded always of one worth

 From birth to birth;

 I to the broken rhythm of thought and man,

 The sweep and span

 Of memory and hope

 About the orbit where they still must grope

 For wider scope,

 To be through thousand springs restored, renewed,

 With love imbrued,

 With increments of will

 Made strong, perceiving unattainment still

 From each new skill.

 Always the flawless beauty, always the chord

 Of the Overword,

 Dominant, pleading, sure,

 No truth too small to save and make endure.

 No good too poor!

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