EPILOGUE. 
 
LIKE snows on the mountain, unlifted 
By weather or wind as it blows, 
In hollows the heaps of it drifted, 
The splendour of fathomless snows ; 
So measure and meaning are shifted to fashion a 
rose. 
 
The garland I made in my sorrow 
Was woven of infinite peace ; 
The joy that was white on the morrow 
Made music of viols at ease ; 
The thoughts of the Highest would borrow the 
roar of the seas. 
 
This pastime of hope and of labour 
Fled singing through bountiful hours, 
With sleep for a bride, for a neighbour 
 
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