If Sunset Clouds Could Grow On Trees It Would But Match The May In Flower; And Skies Be Underneath The Seas No Topsyturvier Than A Shower. If Mountains Rose On Wings To Wander They Were No Wilder Than A Cloud; Yet All My Praise Is Mean As Slander, Mean As These Mean Words Spoken Aloud. And Never More Than Now I Know That Man'S First Heaven Is Far Behind; Unless The Blazing Seraph'S Blow Has Left Him In The Garden Blind. Witness, O Sun That Blinds Our Eyes, Unthinkable And Unthankable King, That Though All Other Wonder Dies I Wonder At Not Wondering.