Her fingers number every nerve, Just as a miser counts his gold; She lives upon his shrieks and cries, And she grows young as he grows old. Till he becomes a bleeding Youth, And she becomes a Virgin bright; Then he rends up his manacles, And binds her down for his delight. He plants himself in all her nerves, Just as a husbandman his mould; And she becomes his dwelling-place And garden fruitful seventyfold. An aged Shadow, soon he fades, Wandering round an earthly cot, Full filled all with gems and gold Which he by industry had got. And these are the gems of the human soul, The rubies and pearls of a love-sick eye, The countless gold of the aching heart, The martyr's groan and the lover's sigh. They are his meat, they are his drink; He feeds the beggar and the poor And the wayfaring traveller: For ever open is his door. His grief is their eternal joy; They make the roofs and walls to ring; Till from the fire on the hearth A little Female Babe does spring. And she is all of solid fire And gems and gold, that none his hand Dares stretch to touch her baby form, Or wrap her in his swaddling-band. But she comes to the man she loves, If young or old, or rich or poor; They soon drive out the Aged Host, A beggar at another's door. He wanders weeping far away, Until some other take him in; Oft blind and age-bent, sore distrest, Until he can a Maiden win. And to allay his freezing age, The poor man takes her in his arms; The cottage fades before his sight, The garden and its lovely charms. The guests are scatter'd thro' the land, For the eye altering alters all; The senses roll themselves in fear, And the flat earth becomes a ball; The stars, sun, moon, all shrink away, A desert vast without a bound, And nothing left to eat or drink, And a dark desert all around. The honey of her infant lips, The bread and wine of her sweet smile, The wild game of her roving eye, Does him to infancy beguile; For as he eats and drinks he grows Younger and younger every day; And on the desert wild they both Wander in terror and dismay. Like the wild stag she flees away, Her fear plants many a thicket wild; While he pursues her night and day, By various arts of love beguil'd; By various arts of love and hate,
