I tried my sight on an apple-tree That for eccentric knob and wart Had all my love. Without meat or drink I sat Starving my fantasy down To discover that metaphysical Tree which hid From my worldling look its brilliant vein Far deeper in gross wood Than axe could cut. But before I might blind sense To see with the spotless soul, Each particular quirk so ravished me Every pock and stain bulked more beautiful Than flesh of any body Flawed by love’s prints.
