Of Waste Is Heaven Builded Up

Earth hath filled it up o' waste and waste.
The sea's fair breast, that heaveth as a mother's,
Beareth waste o' wrecks and wind-blown waste.
The day doth hold o' waste.
The smiles that die, that long to break,
The woes that burden them already broke,
'Tis waste, ah yea, 'tis waste.
And yet, and yet, at some fair day,
E'en as the singing thou dost note
Doth bound from yonder hill's side green
As echo, yea, the ghost o' thy voice;
So shall all o' this to sound aback
Unto the day.
Of waste, of waste is heaven builded up.