Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and [sweetly voiceless],
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.
We [thread the earth] in silence;
In silence build our bowers;
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop sweet flowers.