Where moss grows most. Amidst it came,
Unearthly sweet, out of the air it seemed,
A voice singing to the vibrant string,
‘Forget the grief upon the great water,
Card and compass and the cruel rain.
Leave that labour; lilies in the green wood
Toil not, toil not. Trouble were to weave them
Coats that come to them without care or toil.
Seek not the seas again; safer is the green wood,
Lilies that live there have labour not at all,
Spin not, spin not. Spent in vain the troubles were
Beauty to bring them that better comes by kind.’
• From Narrative Poems
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