“O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My glory, my perfection! glad I see Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night (Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed, If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day past, or morrow’s next design, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksome night. Methought, Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk With gentle voice; I thought it thine. It said, ‘Why sleep’st thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns Full-orbed the moon, and, with more pleasing light, Shadowy sets off the face of things⁠—in vain, If none regard. Heaven wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Nature’s desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze?’ I rose as at thy call, but found thee not: To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I passed through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree