O tyger-hearted bard, whose love-enlargèd eyes
Saw all things as they are; saw swarms of angels
Glimmering from the trees in soft and burning garments –
Each on his branch like a child on a swing,
But all afire, as though a host of falling stars
Alighted, and were dangerously silent:
You were not for this world.

                                         For you, there was no veil
To shield your eyes from the scorching glance of Yahweh:
The Beauty of the earth cast off her homely cloak
When she was in your presence, striding naked
Under the noonday sun, bold and terrible bride,
To where you waited, reeling.

                                            O Heaven-haunted one,
The fire in your bones would not be calmed,
But blazed forth into books, whose pages, even now,
Seem scarcely cooled . . .

                                    . . .You never could forget
The sound He made, walking in the garden in the cool of the day:
His voice still echoed in your ears, and every
Stone or flower or tree that met your exiled eyes
Put you in mind of His face, the way a maid,
Bereavèd of her youthful lover, hears his voice,
Sometimes, in a crowd, and glances about
With ardent heart, forgetting what she knows is true –
But soon recalling, is bereaved anew.