The sun may justly issue scorn;
A light more fair hath brought my morn’.
And moon with jealous gravity
Doth wane. In darkest night ’tis She.
Betwixt the two at any hour
I gaze upon the lovely flower
of Beauty walking by my side.
She goeth not, shall e’re abide
All through the night and ev’ry day.
And to what end?” the others say.
Thus in reply, naught do I write;
I walk in faith and fearless sight.
But should I feign an answer send,
My words would be,
“There is no end.”