Mourn ye young Gardens, ye unfinish't Gates,
Ye Green Inclosures and ye growing Sweets,
Lament, for ye our Midnight Hours have known,
And watch'd us walking by the silent Moon
In Conference Divine, while Heavenly Fire
Kindling our Breasts did all our Thoughts inspire
With Joys almost Immortal; then our Zeal
Blaz'd and burnt high to reach th' Ethereal Hill,
And Love refin'd like that above the Poles
Threw both our Arms round one anothers Souls
In Rapture and Embraces. Oh forbear,
Forbear, my Song! this is too much to hear,
Too dreadful to repeat; such Joys as these
Fled from the Earth for ever!