Dedication

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; --

2. 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.

3. 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 bis 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 fig,

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 fleeteth 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 elfaced

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 balf-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 eft 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

Aery easements, whence the glance

Of whoso there, as in a trance,

Walketh about the whisperous shade

Under that vaulted verdure laid,

Seeth 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.

4. 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.

5. 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.

6. 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 Caesar'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.

7. 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.

8. The memory of her is mellow light

In darkness, mingling something bright

With all things; like a summer night.

9. The presence of her is young sunrise,

That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise,

Glorifieth, the earth and skies:

10. Her spirit is tender and bright as dew

Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few:

Her heart is harmless, simple, and true,

11. And blithe, and sweet, as bird in bower,

That singeth alone from hour to hour:

Her face is fair as April flower:

12. Her voice is fresh as bubbling bound

Of silver stream, in land new found,

That maketh ever a pleasant sound

13. To the soul of a thirsty traveller:

Her laugh is light as grasshopper:

Her breath is sweet as midsummer:

14. Her hair is a marvellous living thing

With a will of its own: the little locks fling

Showers of brown gold, gambolling

15. Over the ever-fleeting shade

About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd,

With delicate odours underlaid:

16. Like calm midsummer cloud, nor less

Clothed with sweet light and silentness,

She in her gracious movement is:

17. Noble withal, and free from fear

As heart of eagle, and high, and near

To heaven in all her ways: of cheer

18. Gentle, and meek, from harshness free

As heart of dove: nor chideth she

Things ill, but knoweth not that they be:

19. All clear as waters clean that run

Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun,

Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none:

20. But in my Lady's perfect nature

All is sincere, and of sweet feature.

This earth hath none such other creature.

21. 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."

22. 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.