The day is not for our delight,
nor is the light what we believe;
under the lampless eaves of night,
blindly for wonder at her white,
the lover in his living sleeve
is giving more, and will receive,
than in the naked land of sight.

But many be your nights and days,
a gallery of praise and peace:
time will release, and spring will raise,
that prisoned king, who by the ways
of risen starts will know increase 
until the dance the dancer cease
and the still trance of music stays.