As many times upon the running lawn,
The spangled night of Iris-fragrant Spring
Was the various and populated town
Of our souls’ sensing of our God and King¾
There were no tigers in our Father’s world,
No spiders in the singing Lotus there;
Around our rose-tree house the Serpent curled
Benign and fructed sleeper, centered fair.
We played creation round about his head
And Magicked friendship from the tuneful skies;
Thus being spectral, chaos shrank and fled
And found the cosmos deep as we were wise.
So, having lost the fathering gift of play
We strain at fallen love in common day.