Classic Poem

O Virgin, fairer than the stars on high,
Than gold more glittering, and than glass more bright
Dearer than purple to the eye;
Outvying roses white. Virgin :

Jesus, more beauteous than the crimson west,
Than the moon's splendour, or the noon-day glow;
Dearer than fields with springtide blest;
Purer than winter snow. Child :

So gleamest thou as some twin-fountain cool
Which, having danced around green Heshbon's hill,
Seeks now some far sequestered pool,
Alone and wondrous still. Virgin :

So shinest thou as twin-doves milky white
Shine in our eyes, when by some riverside
Or garden streamlet they alight,
And peacefully abide. Child :

Thy noble locks thy graceful shoulders crown
Like purple robes dipt in a Lydian fount,
Or long-fleeced wild goats wandering down
From Gilead's topmost mount. Virgin :

Thy lovely circling hair thy face illumes
As a green crest the tapering palm entwines,
Or as in twilight of its plumes,
The shadowy raven shines. Child :

Words, Virgin, from thy lips as softly flow
As honeyed streams from combs Hyblaean run,
Or bridal veils let loose fall low,
The fillets being undone. Virgin :

Son, with thy words thy lips as sweetly swim
As cups that overflow with Caecuban,
Or wet with dews at evening dim
The lilies glimmer wan. Child :

Thy breasts are like to roe-deer that are twins,
Which crop the lilies with their tender lips,
When panting, the tired day begins
To seek the night's eclipse. Virgin :

Son, thy breasts vie with clusters of the vine,
Clusters which in green Cyprus see the light,
Or which in fair Engaddi shine
Amid its gardens bright. Child :

Whoever thy fair cheeks, O Maid, beholds
Finds rosy apples in a branching tree;
While other fruits thy heart enfolds
More beautiful to see. Virgin :

Whoever, Child, upon thy cheeks shall gaze
Shall see a picture drawn with cunning hand,
Where rose and lily, with blent rays,
In wondrous beauty stand. Child :

Who loves thee not, the wild beasts' nature shares,
The tiger's cruelty, the leopard's ire;
Is more implacable than bears;
Than angry snakes more dire. Virgin :

Who loves thee not, is harder than a stone;
Rougher than rocks; than winds more wanton-wild;
Deafer than seas that toss and moan;
Than raging flames less mild.