And catch the strains of Death and Birth:
And take the honey that is stored by all the flitting bee-like hours.
And you must put to memory
The silver music of the stars
That raineth down so silently,
And all the mighty harmony scrolled on the sky in glittering bars.
The music that no man can make,
The colours that he cannot see,
These out of darkness you shall take
And nourish up your growing soul with manna of their mystery.