Here in the highway without thy garden wall,
Here in the babel and the glare,
Sick for thy haven, O Sweet, to thee I call:
Open thy gate unto my prayer—
Open thy gate.

Cool is thy garden-plot, pleasant thy shade,
All things commend thee in thy place;
Dwelling on thy perfectness, O Sweet, I am afraid,
But, fearing, long to look upon thy face—
Open thy gate.

Over the ample globe, searching for thee,
Thee and thy garden have I come;
Ended my questing: no more, no more for me,
O Sweet, the pilgrim’s sandals, call me home—
Open thy gate.