Thus speaks the Bride, whose feet have trod
The chamber of eternal rest,
The secret treasure-house of God,
Where God is manifest:
“Created things, arise and flee,
Ye are but sorrow and care to me.”
This wide, wide world, so rich and fair,
Thou sure canst find thy solace there?
“Nay, ’neath the flowers the serpent glides,
Amidst the bravery envy hides.”