This soul thou viewest in me
That maketh me doth the tillage of heart
What soul is this wraps itself in mystery
That maketh me pitched in full guard
And pierces with the sword of sensitivity
Yet fills me hearty with the sea of quietness
With contant callings of percieving
O, and I listen with much loveliness
The world speaketh worriment unto me soul
However dreamily mine eyes speak
Twas this stillness in me soul that reach in cold
No wool of any lamb could do
Giveth warmth to this soul on this world move