Classic Poem

I

I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
I do not think the world a field could show
?With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare;
But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row,
?A thousand flowers around me flourished fair,
?White, pied and crimson, in the summer air;
Among the which I heard a sweet bird's tone.
I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Her song it was so tender and so clear
?That all the world listened with love; then I
With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near,
?Her golden head and golden wings could spy,
?Her plumes that flashed like rubies neath the sky,
Her crystal beak and throat and bosom's zone.
I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love;
?But arrow-like she soared, and through the air
Fled to her nest upon the boughs above;
?Wherefore to follow her is all my care,
?For haply I might lure her by some snare
Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.
I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile;
?But since of singing she doth take such pleasure,
Without or other art or other guile
?I seek to win her with a tuneful measure;
?Therefore in singing spend I all my leisure,
To make by singing this sweet bird my own.
I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
II

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire,
?An angel of our lord, a laughing boy,
Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre,
?And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy,
?That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy:
Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise!
He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move,
?So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight,
That it is like the lightning of high Jove,
?Riving of iron and adamant the might;
?Nathless the wound doth carry such delight
That he who suffers dwells in Paradise.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger
?Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee,
That all proud souls are bound to bend to her
?So sweet her countenance, it turns the key
?Of hard hearts locked in cold security:
Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
In Myrrha's eyes beauty doth but make her throne,
?And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind:
Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known
?As in the whole wide world he scarce may find:
?Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind,
He lives again beneath her gazing eyes.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
III

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
Violets and lilies grew on every side
?Mid the green grass, and the young flowers wonderful,
Golden and white and red and azure-eyed;
?Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull
?Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful,
To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
But when my lap was full of flowers I spied
?Roses at last, roses of every hue;
Therefore I ran to pluck their ruddy pride,
?Because their perfume was so sweet and true
?That all my soul went forth with pleasure new;
With yearning and desire too soft to say.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
I gazed and gazed. Hard task it were to tell
?How lovely were the roses in that hour:
One was but peeping from her verdant shell,
?And some were faded, some were scarce in flower:
?Then Love said: Go, pluck from the blooming bower
Those that thou seest ripe upon the spray.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.
For when the full rose quits her tender sheath,
?When she is sweetest and most fair to see,
Then is the time to place her in thy wreath,
?Before her beauty and her freshness flee.
?Gather ye therefore roses with great glee,
Sweet girls, or e'er their perfume pass away.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.