Where is a holier thing
In a fair world apparell'd for our bliss
Than the pure influence
That dwells in a girl's heart
And beams from her quiet eyes?
Earth has no ministering
So lovely, so acceptable or wise,
Withal so frail as this;
Which, if man win, it needeth all his art,
Lest uncouth violence,
Rough mastery, or the tyrannies of earth,
Should maim or shatter out
With ill-timed speech or flout
Her wistful-tender'd balm at very birth.
Her Motherhood to be
She hides in her child-bosom, as a seed
That creepeth to be flower
Long ere it feeleth light:
She nurtureth her lover
Within her arms made free,
Upon her heart made restful, given over
To her most gentle deed,
He lieth watcht upon by her grave sight;
And she liveth her hour,
Contented to be Mother to this child,
Given before her time
Assurance whence to climb
Up to her real throne of Godhead mild.
Then in her perfect day,
Whenas her sanguine flower hath burst the sheath,
And she, a maiden tall,
Doth soberly give up
Her sanctity and grace,
Her childhood's free array,
To win her order'd and appointed place;
Submissness as a wreath
Lieth upon her; and she is a cup
Of bounties unto all.
So all that come about her worship her,
And in her pleasance find
Peace and a quiet mind,
Her pledge of honour, and her harbinger.
When the crown of her flesh,
New flesh ensoul'd from her saint armoury
Of pure flesh sublimated,
Is set upon her brows,
All her strength she will give
To draw it out from the mesh
Of circumstance adverse, that so it live
And grow to bud, as she
Herself from grafted slip became a rose;
Her prayer is consummated
In her meek mercies and her tenderness
For this groping and blind
Whisper of love behind,
And stronger cry of joy and thankfulness.
Ah, frailer than a breath,
Sullied sooner, more fatally than glass!
If such most desolate
Pitiful lot be hers,
That a brute-soul possess
And goad her to her death;
Death were more welcome than the piteousness
Of life, for she would pass
Up to the stars, the silent messengers
Of God who from his seat
Weepeth for beauty driven down by dearth
Of love to peak and fail,
To wring hands and turn pale,
Eyeing dismay'd the shock of her soul's worth.
In a fair world apparell'd for our bliss
Than the pure influence
That dwells in a girl's heart
And beams from her quiet eyes?
Earth has no ministering
So lovely, so acceptable or wise,
Withal so frail as this;
Which, if man win, it needeth all his art,
Lest uncouth violence,
Rough mastery, or the tyrannies of earth,
Should maim or shatter out
With ill-timed speech or flout
Her wistful-tender'd balm at very birth.
Her Motherhood to be
She hides in her child-bosom, as a seed
That creepeth to be flower
Long ere it feeleth light:
She nurtureth her lover
Within her arms made free,
Upon her heart made restful, given over
To her most gentle deed,
He lieth watcht upon by her grave sight;
And she liveth her hour,
Contented to be Mother to this child,
Given before her time
Assurance whence to climb
Up to her real throne of Godhead mild.
Then in her perfect day,
Whenas her sanguine flower hath burst the sheath,
And she, a maiden tall,
Doth soberly give up
Her sanctity and grace,
Her childhood's free array,
To win her order'd and appointed place;
Submissness as a wreath
Lieth upon her; and she is a cup
Of bounties unto all.
So all that come about her worship her,
And in her pleasance find
Peace and a quiet mind,
Her pledge of honour, and her harbinger.
When the crown of her flesh,
New flesh ensoul'd from her saint armoury
Of pure flesh sublimated,
Is set upon her brows,
All her strength she will give
To draw it out from the mesh
Of circumstance adverse, that so it live
And grow to bud, as she
Herself from grafted slip became a rose;
Her prayer is consummated
In her meek mercies and her tenderness
For this groping and blind
Whisper of love behind,
And stronger cry of joy and thankfulness.
Ah, frailer than a breath,
Sullied sooner, more fatally than glass!
If such most desolate
Pitiful lot be hers,
That a brute-soul possess
And goad her to her death;
Death were more welcome than the piteousness
Of life, for she would pass
Up to the stars, the silent messengers
Of God who from his seat
Weepeth for beauty driven down by dearth
Of love to peak and fail,
To wring hands and turn pale,
Eyeing dismay'd the shock of her soul's worth.