To His Lady's Garden, Being Absent Far from Her

Garden more than Eden blessed,
Art thou thus to have thy bowers,
Free'd from winter, and still dressed,
With her face's heaven-set flowers?

Happy too are those thy alleys,
Where her fair feet deign to tread;
Which departing earth's low valleys,
Shall the milky way be led.

Thy trees whose arms her embraced,
And whose fruit her lips do kiss,
In whose virtuous mind well placed,
The rare tree of knowledge is,

Happy are: so thy birds be,
Whom she taught to sing by art;
Who, in heavenly harmony,
With the angels bears a part.

Happy, blest, and fortunate,
Bowers, alleys, trees, and birds;
But my most unhappy state
Far surmounts all reach of words.