  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]
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