In plain words
The poet, of the servants of Araṅgaṉ: He cannot be reached by one's own seeking; he gives the strength to enjoy him; he is honey; he is Araṅgaṉ of lovely Araṅgam, on whose chest, where the Lady Śrī dwells, lies a forest garland that never fades. Praising the two of them together, his true servants, who want nothing but him, their minds filled with love, take to dancing, grow faint with it, call out his names and lose themselves. If we are granted the sight of their gatherings, is not that the very fruit of eyes that see?