WHITE as the foam of the fountain

The bowl of milk-white jade

Circled the plashing water

That had fled from haunts of shade.

Winter lies deep in the earth-womb,

Spring is the leaping up,

High is the summery plume-sway :

Bideth the dregs of the cup.

Night had the shadowy cavern,

Dawn knew the joy of the spray,

Noon sate on summits of grandeur :

What of the ending of day ?

Ever White Silence runneth,

Circling our flicker of speech ;

Not there can come hues of waning,

Nor any birth-cry reach.