My mind awhile was gone about the heavens to pace, high on the back of the moon, fast in the stars’ embrace.

Think not we are enfurled within this globe of clay; each separate star’s a world, or was a world one day.

The lowly Emmet sees in vision clear and true a thousand mysteries which we lack sight to view.

Earth on her back doth bear a many mountain tall; we, for the dust we were lay heaviest of all.

The panting tulip sighed; how deeply, well I know; her cup with blood is dyed, her heart’s a brand aglow.