Among The Blind The One-eyed Blinkard Reigns

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

No White Nor Red Was Ever Seen So Am'rous As This Lovely Green. Fond Lovers, Cruel As Their Flame, Cut In These Trees Their Mistress' Name. Little, Alas, They Know Or Heed How Far These Beauties Hers Exceed! Fair Trees! Where S'e'er Your Barks I Wound, No Name Shall But Your Own Be Found.

I Have A Garden Of My Own, But So With Roses Overgrown, And Lilies, That You Would It Guess To Be A Little Wilderness.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.