All that could run or leap or swim Whether in wood, water or cloud, Acclaiming, proclaiming, declaiming Him.

Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.

He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.

Because I am mad about womenI am mad about the hills,"Said that wild old wicked manWho travels where God wills. . . .