by John Donne

WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,
? ? A pregnant bank swell’d up, to rest
The violet’s reclining head,
? ? Sat we two, one another’s best.

Our hands were firmly cemented
? ? By a fast balm, which thence did spring ;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
? ? Our eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yet
? ? Was all the means to make us one ;
And pictures in our eyes to get
? ? Was all our propagation.

* * * *

So must pure lovers’ souls descend
? ? To affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
? ? Else a great prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so
? ? Weak men on love reveal’d may look ;
Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
? ? But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,
? ? Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
? ? Small change when we’re to bodies gone.

If you’d like to read the whole poem, by all means, indulge.