On the Plethora of Dryads

Hearing a white saint rave
 About a quintessential beauty
 Visible only to the paragon heart,
 I tried my sight on an apple-tree
 That for eccentric knob and wart
 Had all my love.
 Without meat or drink I sat
 Starving my fantasy down
 To discover that metaphysical Tree which hid
 From my worldling look its brilliant vein
 Far deeper in gross wood
 Than axe could cut.
 But before I might blind sense
 To see with the spotless soul,
 Each particular quirk so ravished me
 Every pock and stain bulked more beautiful
 Than flesh of any body
 Flawed by love's prints.
 Battle however I would
 To break through that patchwork
 Of leaves' bicker and whisk in babel tongues,
 Streak and mottle of tawn bark,
 No visionary lightnings
 Pierced my dense lid.
 Instead, a wanton fit
 Dragged each dazzled sense apart
 Surfeiting eye, ear, taste, touch, smell;
 Now, snared by this miraculous art,
 I ride earth's burning carrousel
 Day in, day out,
 And such grit corrupts my eyes
 I must watch sluttish dryads twitch
 Their multifarious silks in the holy grove
 Until no chaste tree but suffers blotch
 Under flux of those seductive
 Reds, greens, blues.