Here at the Fountain’s sliding Foot,
Or at some Fruit Tree’s mossy Root,
Casting the Body’s Vest aside,
My Soul into the Boughs does glide:
There, like a Bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets, and claps its silver Wings;
And, till prepar’d for longer Flight,
Waves in its Plumes the various Light.
Such was that happy Garden’State,
While Man there walk’d without a Mate
After a Place so pure and sweet,
What other Help could yet be meet!
But ‘twas beyond a Mortal’s Share
To wander solitary there:
Two Paradises are in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skillful Gard’ner drew
Of Flow’rs, and Herbs, this Dial new:
Where, from above, the milder Sun
Does through a fragrant Zodiac run:
And, as it works, th’industrious Bee
Computes its Time as well as wel.
How could such sweet and wholesome
Be reekon’d but with Herbs and Flow’rs.
Lily
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