Here in his garden, water flows
bright as a stream of birds, the brown
and jewel-glitter of birds' eyes,
the grain of eyes; and here the sun,
bee-gold and swarming, murmurs on
a grass as ripe as flesh.  The soil
is coarse and fragrant, and the rocks
are heavy flowers.  Here how cool
and soft the fruits; how warm the cheeks - 
a seraph walking shadowless - 
the gentle air will press to mine.
	And he who made my nakedness
a song of living warmth, my skin
fragile as windflower silver, made
my strength of body suave and white,
for Adam's and his own delight,
he gave me liberty of pride
as if in garden, beast, or fruit,
because all beauty must be his.
Yet I am clothed as no beast is:
for, as the sun-chord wraps the mote,
my lords enfold me in their voice
and swathe me in their gale of light.
Nor have I need but I may bind
the garden round me for my dress:
the river's freshly-sliding coat
spangles my body; or the wind
faint as the breathing of this hand
not on my breast but near and warm,
weaves tissue such as angels own.
Pelted with gold, by day I wear
on breast and eye and every limb
the smooth stiff texture of the sun; 	
and in my tired his darker time,
lest even pebbles should lie bare,
in softer beauty shades are spun
from violet branch and grey-gold air.
	This world that I am in is good:
orders of touches lights and stones
and reasons by themselves are food.

And I have wise companions.