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.