University of Virginia Library

Because she hath the sweetest eyes,
The bluest, truest,—and more wise
Than woodland violets wild in wood
To make wholesome the earth, and good;
Because she hath such glad gold hair
That nothing in the laughing air
Of the lusty May, at morn,
When all that's bright and glad is born,
Ever was so glad and bright;
And, therewith, a hand more white
And warm than is the warmèd coat
Of whiteness round a meek dove's throat,
Yet withal so calm, so pure,
No ill passion may endure
That serenest hand's chaste touch;
And because my love is such
That I do not dare to speak,
Of the changes on her cheek,
Which the sunrise and sunset
Of her luminous thoughts beget,
Nor of her rose-sweet mouth, that is
Too sweet to kiss, or not to kiss,
'Tis aye so sweet and savorous;
And because (to comfort us
For what throbbings of sweet pain
Come, and go, and come again,
Till the wishful sense be full,
Gazing on aught so beautiful)
Such innocent wise ways she knoweth,
And so good is all she doeth,—
All she is,—so simple, fair,
Joyous, just, and debonair,
That there is none so ignorant
Of worship, nor with soul so scant
Of visitations from above,
But, seeing her, he needs must love,
And purely love, her,—and for this,
Love better everything that is;—

Therefore now, my Songs, will I
That ye into her presence hie,
Flying over land and sea,
Many an one, that sever me
From the sweet thing that hath the sleeping
Joy of my shut heart in keeping.
But, that when ye hence be gone
Into the bounteous region
Of that bright land over sea
Wherein so many sweet things be,
Where my Lady aye doth dwell,
Ye her dwelling dear may tell,
Nor its special sweetness miss
In midst of many sweetnesses;
Yet awhile, my Songs, delay
Till I have told ye, as I may,
All the fairness of the place
That is familiar with the grace
And glory of my Lady's face.

And (so shall ye know that she
Dwelleth in loftier light than we,
As intimate with skyey things
As are creatures that have wings)
Being come to mountains seven,
Note that one that's nighest heaven:
Thereon lieth against the sun
A place of pleasaunce, all o'er-run
With whisperous shade, and blossoming
Of divers trees, wherein do sing
The little birds, and all together,
All day long in happy weather.
And well I ween that since the birth
Of Adam's firstborn, not on earth
Hath ever been such sweet singing
Of bird on bough, as here doth bring
Into a large and leafy ease
His sense that strayeth among the trees,
Where mingled is full many a note
Of golden-finch and speckle-throat.
Even the hoarse-chested starling
Here, where creepeth never a snarling
Gust to vex his heart, all day
Learneth a more melodious lay
Than that whereby this bird is known,
Which, otherwhere, with chiding tone,
What time the fretful Spring doth heave
The frozen North, to winds, that grieve
Round about the grave of March,
He chaunteth from the cloudy larch:
The linnet loud, and throstle eke,
And the blackbird of golden beak,
With perpetual madrigals
Do melodize the warm green walls
Of those blossom-crownèd groves,
In whose cool hearts the cooing doves
Make murmurings innumerable,
Of sound as sweet as when a well
With noise of bubbled water leapeth
At a green couch where Silence sleepeth:
Nor less, the long-voiced nightingale
Doth, deep down in bloomy vale
Delicious, pour at full noonlight
The song he hath rehearsed o'er-night;
And many other birds be there
Of most sweet voice, and plumage rare,
And names that I not know. Of trees
That spring therein such plenty is
That I to tell them over all
Encumber'd am. Both maple tall
There showeth his silver-mottled bark;
And beeches, colour'd like the dark
Red wine o' the South; and laurels green,
Sunny and smooth, that make rich screen
Round mossy places, where all day
Red squirrels and gray conies play,
Munching brown nuts and such wild fare
As tumbleth from the branches there.
And, for moisture of sweet showers,
All the grass is thick with flowers;
Primrose pure, that cometh alone;
Daisies quaint, with savour none,
But golden eyes of great delight,
That all men love, they be so bright;
And, cold in grassy cloister set,
Many a maiden violet;
The bramble flower, the scarlet hepe,
Hangeth above in sunny sleep;
And all around be knots and rows
Of tufted thyme, and lips of cows;
Whose sweet savour goeth about
The jocund bowers, in and out,
And dieth over all the place;
So that there is not any space
Of sun or shade, but haunted is
With ghosts of many sweetnesses.
There, dreading no intrusive stroke
Of lifted axe, the lusty oak
Broad his branches brown doth fling,
And reigneth, “every inch a king:”
Him also of that other kind
In great plenty shall ye find,
That while the great year goeth around
Sheddeth never his leaves to ground,
But in himself his summer hath,
And oweth not, nor borroweth,
As (though but rare) there be some wise
Good men, that to themselves suffice;
But in northern land we see
Full few, and they but stunted be,
Of this goodly kind of tree.
The ever-trembling birch, through all
Her hoary lights ethereal,
Doth twinkle there, twixt green and gray;
And of fruit-trees is great array:
The apple and the pear tree both,
Smother'd o'er in creamy froth
Of bubbled blossoms; the green sig,
With leathern leaves, and horny twig,
And gluey globes; the juniper,
That smelleth sweet in midsummer;
Nor peach-tree, there, nor apricot,
Needeth either nail or knot;
Nor there from churlish weathers wince
The orange, lemon, plum, and quince;
But under these, by grassy slopes,
Hangeth the vine her leafy ropes;
Wild Proteus she, o' the wanton wood,
That ever shifteth her merry mood,
And, aye in luxury of change,
Loveth to revel, and dance, and range,
In leaves, not hers, she sleeteth through,
Hiding her large grape-bunches blue;
And here, o'er haunts he maketh brown
With droppings from his scented crown,
Standeth the stately sycamore,
Lifting airy terrace o'er
Airy terrace;—such of yore
Dusky masons, deftly skill'd
Mighty stones to pile and build,
Up-hung in sumptuous Babylon,
For silken kings at set of sun
To dally with dark girls; but these
Are humm'd about by honey bees,
And cicale all day long
Creek the chamber'd shades among.
Far away, down hills that seem
Liquid (for the light doth stream
Through and through them) like that vail
Of lucid mist Morn spreadeth pale
O'er Summer's sallow forehead, found
Somewhere asleep on upland ground
Under the shade of heavy woods,
Imaginary multitudes
Of melancholy olives waste
Their wanness, smiling half effaced
In a smooth sea of slumbrous glory;
But high on inland promontory
Blandly the broad-headed pine,
Basking in the blue divine,
Drowseth, drench'd with sunny sky:
And, while the blue needle-fly
Nimbly pricketh in and out
The leaf-broider'd lawns about,
(As busy she as highborn dame
In shining silk, at tambour frame),
The pomegranate, flowering flame,
Burneth lone in cool retreats,
Hidden from those gorgeous heats
Where summer smouldereth into sweets.
Now, when ye have this goodly wood
All roamèd through, in gamesome mood,
At morning tide, and thereon spent
Large wealth of love and wonderment,
In honour due of such full cheer
And lustihood as laugheth here
The well-bower'd grass about,
That windeth in, and windeth out,
Under those bright ribandings
The red-budded bramble flings
From branch to branch, still straying on
Softly, ye shall be ware anon
Of a fair garden, glad and great,
Where my Lady, in high state
Of beauty, doth twixt eve and noon,
Under a spiritual moon,
Visit full oft her vassal flowers
In silent and sweet-scented hours,
When quiet vast is everywhere,
About the blue benignant air
And the cool grass, a deep immense
Gladness, an undisturbèd sense
Of goodness in the gather'd calm
Of old green woodlands bathed in balm,
And bounteous silence. . . . O my love,
How softly do the sweet hours move
About thy peaceful perfectness!
O hasten, little Songs! O press
To meet my Lady, ye that be
Her children, if she knew! . . . But she
Still lingereth, and the silver dawn
Is silent on the unfooted lawn.
Here all day doth couch and sport
Trim Flora, with her florid court:
Roses that be illuminèd
With royal colour rich and red;
Some, with bosoms open wide,
Where the brown bee, undenied,
Drinketh deep of honey drops;
Others, whose enamell'd knops
Prettily do peep between
Their half-bursten cradles green;
Lordly lilies, pale and proud;
And of all flowers a great crowd;
Whose rare-colour'd kirtles show
More hues than of the rainy bow.
In sweet warmth and lucid air
Nod they all and whisper, where
Lightly along each leafy lane
Zephyrus, with his tripping train,
Cometh at cool of even hour
To greet in all her pomp and power
Queen Flora, when in mansions damp
Of the dim moss his spousal lamp
Aloof the enamour'd glow-worm doth
Softly kindle; while the moth
Flitteth; and, at elfin rites,
Sprucely dance the little Sprites
Under the young moon all alone,
Round about King Oberon.
But ye this pleasaunce fair shall reach
Ere yet from off the slanted peach
The drops of silver dew be slipp'd,
Or night-born buds be open-lipp'd.
There shall ye find, in lustrous shade
Of laurels cool, an old well-head
That whelmeth up from under-ground,
And falleth with a tinkling sound
In a broad basin, builded there,
All rose-porphyry, smooth and fair.
The water is ever fresh and new,
As that Narcissus gazed into,
When, for love of his sweet self,
He fainted from the flowery shelf,
Leaving Echo all that pain;
So that now there doth remain
Of him that was so fair and sweet
Only in some green retreat
A purple flower seldom found,
And of her a hollow sound
In hollow places. There shall ye
Pause as ye pass, and sing . . “To thee,
Water, our Master bade us say
Glad be thy heart, and pure alway;
May thy full urn never fail;
Thee nor sun nor frost assail,
Nor wild winter's wind molest thee;
Never newt nor est infest thee;
Taint nor trouble touch thee never;
Heaven above thee smile for ever;
Earth around thee ever bear
Beauteous buds and blossoms rare;
Far from thee be all foul things,
Slaves to thee be all sweet springs,
Because thou, of thy kindness, hast
Shown, in blissful summers past,
To fondest eyes have ever been,
Sweetest face was ever seen:
Therefore be blest for evermore.”
But if, my Songs, ye would explore
This pleasaunce all, there be therein
Delights so many, day would win
His under-goal ere ye were forth
Of your much musing on the worth
That is therein, and wondrous grace:
Therefore, ere the sun down-pace,
Must ye onward, where is spread
A fair terrace; and overhead
Thick trellis of the trembling vine,
That with leaves doth loop and twine
Aëry casements, whence the glance
Of whoso there, as in a trance,
Walketh about the whisperous shade
Under that vaulted verdure laid,
Seëth far down, and far away,
Tower'd cities, throng'd and gay,
Blowing woodlands, bright blue streams
Sparkling outward, yellow gleams
Of wavèd corn, and sun-burnt swells
Of pasture, soothed with sounds of bells
Sprinkled in air, of various tone,
From little hill-side chapels lone,
And peaceful flocks that stray and pass
Down endless lengths of lowland grass.
And, certes, I will boldly say
Of this fair place, let mock who may,
That of joy the quintessence
Hath never slept about the sense
Of mortal man that is to die
With fullness sweet as that which I
Deep in my solaced heart have known,
Whilhom walking, not alone,
Here in summer morns and eves,
When shadowy showers of flittering leaves
Fell, shaken thick from many a rout
Of little birds that fast flew out
Above us; interruption sweet
To converse, felt the more complete
For the interposèd pauses
Born of all such innocent causes.

High on the happy lawn above
Standeth the dwelling of my love.
Fair white all the mansion seemeth,
Save where in green shadow dreameth
The broad blossom-buttress'd roof,
Or where the many-colour'd woof
Of honeysuckle and creeping flowers,
Visibly from vernal showers
Winning length, hath broider'd all
With braided buds the southern wall.
Therein many windows be;
And every window fair to see,
O'er-canopied with hangings bright,
For shelter fresh from summer light.
And underneath, in urns and pots,
Sweet-smelling basil, and red knots
Of roses ripe; for every casement
Is balconied about at basement,
A space where three or four may sit
At interchange of song or wit,
In the low amber evening hours,
Overlooking lawns and flowers.

In the hall, which is beneath,
A fountain springeth and echoeth,
Blown by a sad-looking Nymph,
Ravisht from her native lymph
And mossy grot, in days of old;
And in marble mute and cold
Here for ever must she dwell
Uncompanion'd, by the spell
Of a stern old sculptor caught;
For, aye since then, the hand that wrought
This stony charm her limbs upon
May not undo it. Years are gone,
And still about her doth she stare,
Amazed however she came there.

But ye, since ye be free to rove
This mansion through, to floors above
Up the majestic marble stair
Pass with still steps, unseen, to where
Soon shall ye find, in sequel long,
Twelve great chambers: some be hung
With arras quaint, that doth portray
Hounds that hold the hart at bay
In good green wood, and hunters bold,
And dames aclad in green and gold;
And evermore their horns be wound,
And evermore there cometh no sound:
Others in glowing fresco tell
Great Cæsar's tale, and how he fell
Pierced through and through; with many a story
Of ancient kings that be in glory,
And high-renownèd heroes old;
Sir Tristram, with his harp of gold,
That rashly drain'd the philtre brew'd
By the witch Queen for fair Isoud;
Roland in Roncevallès slain;
And bold Sir Ogier the Dane;
Huon of Bordeaux, love's true star;
Saladin with his scimitar;
The Red-beard Kaiser, sleeping still
Hid in the heart of Salzburg Hill;
David that danceth round the ark;
And Charlemagne; ye there may mark.

But, O my Songs, more softly now,
More softly move! Breathe low, breathe low!
For, by my heart's most tender fear,
I know that ye must now be near
The place where, nesting meek and warm,
Rosy cheek on snowy arm,
With loos'd hair and lidded eye
Dreaming doth my Lady lie:
And all around the restful air
Is silent, sweet, and pure, as where
Fond hands some holy taper trim,
Peaceful in sacred precincts dim.
Now, that my spirit, though far away
From her loved beauty, night and day
Ever in unreleasèd pine
Seeking, on many a musèd line,
To flow toward her, purely may
Her pureness praise,—humbly I pray
Of all good things that wait upon
The mind that maketh devotion
To what is fair (since such do lean
O'er mortal spirits oft unseen
Out of the deep and starry night,
Or steal on beams of morning light,
Or breath of buds, or sound of song
Remember'd, to keep safe from wrong,
And wretchedness, and self-mistrust,
Whatever warreth in this dust
Against oblivion), that their grace
May from my spirit purge and chase
All that is in it not sweet and pure;
So may I look with insight sure
Into myself, and favour find
To make a mirror within my mind,
Whereon, unsoil'd of any taint
Of sinful thought, my most sweet saint
Her fairness may from far let fall
In a deep peace perpetual.

The memory of her is mellow light
In darkness, mingling something bright
With all things; like a summer night.

The presence of her is young sunrise,
That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise,
Glorifieth, the earth and skies:

Her spirit is tender and bright as dew
Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few:
Her heart is harmless, simple, and true,

And blithe, and sweet, as bird in bower,
That singeth alone from hour to hour:
Her face is fair as April flower:

Her voice is fresh as bubbling bound
Of silver stream, in land new found,
That maketh ever a pleasant sound

To the soul of a thirsty traveller:
Her laugh is light as grasshopper:
Her breath is sweet as midsummer:

Her hair is a marvellous living thing
With a will of its own: the little locks fling
Showers of brown gold, gambolling

Over the ever-fleeting shade
About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd,
With delicate odours underlaid:

Like calm midsummer cloud, nor less
Clothed with sweet light and silentness,
She in her gracious movement is:

Noble withal, and free from fear
As heart of eagle, and high, and near
To heaven in all her ways: of cheer

Gentle, and meek, from harshness free
As heart of dove: nor chideth she
Things ill, but knoweth not that they be:

All clear as waters clean that run
Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun,
Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none:

But in my Lady's perfect nature
All is sincere, and of sweet feature.
This earth hath none such other creature.

Rise, little Songs, on nimble wing!
Arise! arise! as larks do sing
Lost in that heaven of light they love,
So rise, so lose yourselves above
My darkness, in the perfect light
Of her that is so pure and bright!
Rise, little Songs! with lusty cheer
Rise up to greet my Lady dear.
Be bold, and say to her with pride,—
“We are the souls of loves that died;
Whose sweetness is hope sorrow-fed,
Whose tendernesses tears unshed;
And we are essences that rise
From passions burn'd in sacrifice;
The youngest and bright-eyèd heirs
Of blind unbeautiful despairs;
Voiced resignations, once dumb wrongs.”
Then, if she smile on you, my Songs,
Say, as I bid you, word for word,
“Lady of him that is our lord,
We from his heart, where we were born,
Shelter'd, and shut from shame and scorn,
Now at his bidding (well-a-day
For him, and us!) being fled away,
Never again may there abide,
Never return, and, undenied,
Creep in, and fold our wings, and rest
At peace in our abandon'd nest.
Wherefore, dear mistress, prithee take
(By true love sent, for true love's sake)
To thy sweet heart, and spirit pure,
Us, that must else but ill endure
The scorns of time, and haply fare
Homeless as birds in winter are.”

But if that, on your way to greet
My gracious Lady, ye should meet
Haply elsewhere with other folk
Who may ask ye in scorn or joke,—
“Pray you now, little Songs, declare
Who is that lady so sweet and fair,
Whereof this singer that sent you sings,
As certainly sweeter than all sweet things?”
See that ye answer not, Songs, but deep
In your secretest hearts my secret keep;
Lest the world, that loveth me not, should tell
The name of the Lady I love so well.