Thus sung I in these grounds erewhile, perchance
Tempted by sudden aptitude of words
Into that measure which least pleaseth me,
Sacred to Satire and unquiet thought.
Forgive me, shades; forgive me, thou calm lake
Of spreading water, quietly asleep
Between thy fringing woods: Man is not less
Than Nature holy; and these records fair
Of striving after likeness to the forms
Of natural beauty may not be despised
By man, as them imperfect; rather stored
Within the patient spirit, if perhaps
The slow--learnt lesson of obeying God
By them be furthered; and the complete soul
Pass from the fretful crowd of hopes and fears
Into her silent oratory, where,
With calm submission and unshaken trust,
She may lay out herself to imitate
All forms of beauty spiritual, and make
A pleasure--ground within, for angels fit,
And Him whose voice was heard among the trees,
Walking in Eden in the cool of the day.