If thou must wander in these Woods,
As vagrant as Affection’s moods,
Be thou directed, Phyllis, by
Some vigilant Philosophy
That may dissociate thy grief
From seasons simple to the leaf.
Such Learning, though it set thee free
To relish Summer’s prodigy,
To love all Ripeness, and to dote
Freely upon the Poet’s Oat,
May save thee breathing thy despair
Into this wide incessant Air.
For we must master, if we can,
A Craft particular to Man,
And study through our little Term
To smile at the Ironic Worm
Sequestered at the core of Love
That smiles when it is spoken of.
The Apple that was Venus’ prize
Inclines to dazzle human eyes,
And, winning in its golden hue,
Core of the circumscribing Blue,
Seems to enchant the willing Mind
Out of the forces of the wind.
Wherefore I offer thee the Plan
Of a most earnest, gifted man
Who learned “to use my selfe in jest,”
And in this wise might we ingest
The airy Differences that turn
The Thinking Reed or potted Fern.
The new-born Child, held like a Fowl
High by the heels, is taught to howl
For Air and for his mother’s Pap
By an invigorating slap;
Thus do our lives at once begin
With an ambiguous Medicine.
And therefore, Girl, when thou dost rove,
Full of uncomplemented Love,
Mourn not to see the Apple fall,
For we are fallen, and may call
Love into being only by
The Shifts of Multiplicity.