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 mea 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]
MADONNA MIA
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 Against the cold.
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 And oil and wine, Were given her for dowers, And kingdom of all hours, And grace of goodly flowers And various vine.
This is my lady's praise: God after many days Wrought her in unknown ways, In sunset lands; This is my lady's birth; God gave her might and mirth. And laid his whole sweet earth Between her hands.
Under deep apple boughs My lady hath her house; She wears upon her brows The flower thereof; All saying but what God saith To her is as vain breath; She is more strong than death, Being strong as love.
Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]
"MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE?"
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?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender! Then what said I? - gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her: - But, - meet we no angels, Pansie?
Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]
TO DAPHNE
Like apple-blossoms, white and red; Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon; Like bloom of peach, so softly spread; Like thorn of May and rose of June - Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.
That pretty rose, which comes and goes Like April sunshine in the sky, I can command it when I choose - See how it rises if I cry: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.
Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes, And fades away, again to spring, No lover, sure, could ask for more Than still to cry, and still to sing: Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare, Are Daphne's cheeks, Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.
Walter Besant [1836-1901]
"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"
Girl of the red mouth, Love me! Love me! Girl of the red mouth, Love me! 'Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it - ah, even so! Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!
Girl of the blue eye, Love me! Love me! Girl of the dew eye, Love me! Worlds hang for lamps on high; And thought's world lives in thy Lustrous and tender eye - Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!
Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! Love me! Girl of the swan's neck, Love me! As a marble Greek doth grow To his steed's back of snow, Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so, - Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!
Girl of the low voice, Love me! Love me! Girl of the sweet voice, Love me! Like the echo of a bell, - Like the bubbling of a well, - Sweeter! Love within doth dwell, - Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!
Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]
THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA
O lend to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain, And lend to me your cadences, O river of the mountain! That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set, Gem for a prince's coronet - The daughter of Mendoza.
How brilliant is the morning star, The evening star how tender, - The light of both is in her eyes, Their softness and their splendor. But for the lash that shades their light They were too dazzling for the sight, And when she shuts them, all is night - The daughter of Mendoza.
O ever bright and beauteous one, Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tones, The rainbow in thy smiling; And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell - Sweet daughter of Mendoza!
What though, perchance, we no more meet, - What though too soon we sever? Thy form will float like emerald light Before my vision ever. For who can see and then forget The glories of my gay brunette - Thou art too bright a star to set, Sweet daughter of Mendoza!
Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]
"IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"
If she be made of white and red, As all transcendent beauty shows; If heaven be blue above her head, And earth be golden, as she goes: Nay, then thy deftest words restrain; Tell not that beauty, it is vain.
If she be filled with love and scorn, As all divinest natures are; If 'twixt her lips such words are born, As can but Heaven or Hell confer: Bid Love be still, nor ever speak, Lest he his own rejection seek.
Herbert P. Horne [1864-
THE LOVER'S SONG
Lend me thy fillet, Love! I would no longer see: Cover mine eyelids close awhile, And make me blind like thee.
Then might I pass her sunny face, And know not it was fair; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there.
Ah! banished so from stars and sun - Why need it be my fate? If only she might dream me good And wise, and be my mate!
Lend her thy fillet, Love! Let her no longer see: If there is hope for me at all, She must be blind like thee.
Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]
"WHEN FIRST I SAW HER"
When first I saw her, at the stroke The heart of nature in me spoke; The very landscape smiled more sweet, Lit by her eyes, pressed by her feet; She made the stars of heaven more bright By sleeping under them at night; And fairer made the flowers of May By being lovelier than they.
O, soft, soft, where the sunshine spread, Dark in the grass I laid my head; And let the lights of earth depart To find her image in my heart; Then through my being came and went Tones of some heavenly instrument, As if where its blind motions roll The world should wake and be a soul.
George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]
MY APRIL LADY
When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.
When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.
My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.
Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]
THE MILKMAID A New Song To An Old Tune
Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace, - A maid I know, - and March winds blow Her hair across her face; - With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine.