How pure the object of my love
That makes my hapless self envy
A mist of floating cloud above
And down in meadow swaying tree.

How sweet the object of my praise
That makes my wretched self envy
A spider in its webby maze
And pigeon nested peacefully.

How blest the object of my song
That makes my sorry self envy
A frazzled rug that runs along
That patch of Garden eye can’t see.

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