Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green glade . . . Such was that happy garden-state, . . .
What wond'rous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.