Not greatly long my lady's hair, Nor yet with yellow color fair, But thick and crispèd wonderfully: Beata mea Domina!
Heavy to make the pale face sad, And dark, but dead as though it had Been forged by God most wonderfully Beata mea Domina!
Of some strange metal, thread by thread, To stand out from my lady's head, Not moving much to tangle me. Beata mea Domina!
Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beata mea Domina!
Her great eyes, standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully;
Beata mea Domina!
So beautiful and kind they are, But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me. Beata mea Domina!
I wonder if the lashes long
Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be
Lurking below the underlid,
Darkening the place where they lie hid:
If they should rise and flow for me! Beata mea Domina!
Her full lips being made to kiss, Curled up and pensive each one is; This makes me faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina !
Her lips are not contented now, Because the hours pass so slow Towards a sweet time: (pray for me), Beata mea Domina!
Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? But this at least I know full well, Her lips are parted longingly,
Beata mea Domina!
So passionate and swift to move, To pluck at any flying love,
That I grow faint to stand and see. Beata mea Domina!
Yea! there beneath them is her chin, So fine and round, it were a sin
To feel no weaker when I see
Beata mca Domina!
God's dealings; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me.
Beata mea Domina!
Of her long neck what shall I say? What things about her body's sway, Like a knight's pennon or slim tree Beata mea Domina!
Set gently waving in the wind; Or her long hands that I may find On some day sweet to move o'er me? Beata mea Domina!
God pity me though, if I missed The telling, how along her wrist The veins creep, dying languidly Beata mea Domina!
Inside her tender palm and thin. Now give me pardon, dear, wherein My voice is weak and vexes thee. Beata mea Domina!
All men that see her any time,
I charge you straightly in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be,
Beata mea Domina!
To kneel before her; as for me I choke and grow quite faint to see My lady moving graciously.
Beata mea Domina!
William Morris [1834-1896]
UNDER green apple boughs That never a storm will rouse, My lady hath her house Between two bowers;
In either of the twain Red roses full of rain; She hath for bondwomen All kind of flowers.
She hath no handmaid fair To draw her curled gold hair Through rings of gold that bear Her whole hair's weight; She hath no maids to stand Gold-clothed on either hand; In all that great green land None is so great.
She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair,
Wrought with strange gold, Made for some great queen's head, Some fair great queen since dead; And one strait gown of red
Beneath her eyelids deep
Love lying seems asleep, Love, swift to wake, to weep, To laugh, to gaze;
Her breasts are like white birds, And all her gracious words
As water-grass to herds In the June-days.
To her all dews that fall And rains are musical; Her flowers are fed from all, Her joys from these; In the deep-feathered firs
Their gift of joy is hers,
In the least breath that stirs
Across the trees.
She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves, Forgets, remembers, grieves, And is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies Leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad.
None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands; Though you should search all lands Wherein time grows,
What snows are like her feet, Though his eyes burn with heat Through gazing on my sweet,- Yet no man knows.
Only this thing is said;
That white and gold and red,
God's three chief words, man's bread
CAME, on a Sabbath morn, my sweet, In white, to find her lover;
The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:- Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, "We meet no angels now"; And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honor:-
What! meet no angels, Pansie?
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