Oh, thou that art unwearying, that dost neither sleep Nor slumber, who didst take All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep Watch for me till I wake. If thou think for me what I cannot think, if thou Desire for me what I Cannot desire, my soul’s interior Form, though now Deep-buried, will not die, —No more than the insensible dropp’d seed which grows Through winter ripe for birth Because, while it forgets, the heaven remembering throws Sweet influence still on earth, —Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes Still turning round the earth.
