Now picture me the bride, described from life.
That Nature's pencil needs, nor lesser hues Than sunbeams. Perfect are both man and wife; Of equal beauty they, from head to foot. By right doth Adam Eve excel in strength Of form and majesty of bearing, as One chosen for the sovereignty of Earth: But Eve combines all that her bridegroom joys: 180 A tenderness of limb and softer skin And flesh, a lovelier tint and eyes enchanting, A charming, gracious mouth, a sweeter voice, Whose power lies in a sound more exquisite; Two founts of ivory and what besides No tongue should dare to name, lest Spirits should Be tempted. And though all the Angels now Impress our eyes as beautiful and fair. How ill their forms and faces would appear If seen within the rosy morning-light 190 Of maidenhood!
[Illustration: "Perfect are both man and wife; Of equal beauty they from head to foot."]
It seems that passion for This feminine creature hath thy heart inflamed.
In that delightful blaze, my great wing-plumes I singed. Most hard it was for me to rise And wheel my way to this our high abode. I parted, though with pain, and thrice turned back My gaze. There shines no Seraph in the courts Celestial, here on high, as she amid Her hanging hair, that forms a golden niche Of sunbeams that in beauteous waves roll down 200 From her fair head, and flow along her back. So, even as from a light, she comes to view, And day rejoices with her radiant face. Though pearl and mother-o'-pearl seem purity, Her whiteness even theirs surpasses far.
What profits human glory, if even as A flower of the field it fades and dies?
So long their garden fruit doth give, shall this Most happy pair live by an apple sweet, Grown on the central tree, that nurture finds 210 Beside the stream that laves its tender roots. This wondrous tree is called the tree of life. 'Tis incorruptible, and through it man Joys life eterne and all immortal things, While of his Angel brothers he becomes The peer, yea, and shall in the end surpass Them all, until his power and sway and realm Spread over all. For who can clip his wings? No Angel hath the power to multiply His being a thousand thousand times, in swarms 220 Innumerable. Now do thou calculate What shall from this, in time, the outcome be.