XXV

Whiter and whiter The dark lines grow, And broader opens and brighter The sense of the text below.

Nightfall and morrow Bring nigher the boy Whom wanting we want not sorrow, Whom having we want no joy.

Clearer and clearer The sweet sense grows Of the word which hath summer for hearer, The word on the lips of the rose.

Duskily dwindles Each deathlike day, Till June rearising rekindles The depth of the darkness of May.