Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.

Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

Though I carry always some ill-nature about me, yet it is, I hope, no more than is in this world necessary for a preservative.

Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.

Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.