Of Paradise, and of the stately tree
Which in the middle of the garden grew,
The golden fruit that hung upon its boughs,
Of which but once we ate, and I must feel
That whereas once in His continual sight
We lived, in daily communing with Him,
We now are banished, and behold not Him.
Our only present communing, alas!
Is penitential mourning, and the gaze
Of the abased and prostrate prayerful soul;