Betwixt the upper Mill-stone _Yes_
And the nether Mill-stone _No_,
Whence cometh _burr_ and _burr_ and _burr_
And much noise of quarrel,
The Miller poured the hopper full
Of corn from the bag,
And in the corn lay one violet,
(Maybe the farmer's little girl dropped it in
When the boy went to the bin to fill the bag).
And _burr_ quoth the upper Mill-stone,
And _burr you back again_ the nether,
And the violet was ground with the corn,
But passed not into the bag with the meal,
Thank God!
The odor of crushed violet flew forth
And passed about the ages;
And men here and there had a sense
Of somewhat rich and high-intense,
Dewy, fiery, dear, forlorn,
Delicate, grave, new out of the morn,
But saturate yet
With the night despair that every flower will wet.
[_Credo, and Other Poems_]