The Sun To Me Is Dark And

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad Cure!

Of Man's First Disobedience, And The Fruit/of That Forbidden Tree, Whose Mortal Taste/brought Death Into The World, And All Our Woe,/with Loss Of Eden, Till One Greater Man/restore Us, And Regain The Blissful Seat,/sing Heavenly Muse

Each Tree Laden With Fairest Fruit, That Hung To Th' Eye Tempting, Stirr'd In Me Sudden Appetite To Pluck And Eat.