A white space like a space of glass
⁠With golden candles over all.

There was no tender touch or fleck
⁠To spoil my body or bared feet.
My words were soft like dulcimers,
And the first sweet of grape-flowers
⁠Made each-side of my bosom sweet.
My raiment was as tender fruit
Whose rind smells sweet of spice-tree root,
⁠Bruised balm-blossom and budded wheat.

Like the throat of a soft slain lamb
⁠Was my throat, softer veined than his:
My lips were as two grapes the sun
Lays his whole weight of heat upon
⁠Like a mouth heavy with a kiss:
My hair's pure purple a wrought fleece,
My temples therein as a piece
⁠Of a pomegranate’s cleaving is.

My face made faint the face of man,