In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O wondrous one, husband [of Śrī], perfect one, who could let your lying in the cool sea [of milk] become a thing of the past and come running to dwell in the sea of my heart: though the places called the matchless sea [of milk], the matchless light [the sun's orb] and the matchless world [Paramapadam] are there to be your dwelling, you have made me your own [dwelling].