Give beauty all her right;
She 's not to one form tied.
Each shape yields fair delight,
Where her perfections bide.
Helen I grant might pleasing be,
And Rosamond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred.
Meadows have flowers that pleasure move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime.
She visits every ground,
And favours every time.
Let the old loves with mine compare,

Y shall gow telle, as Y have herd,
Of þe bysshope Seynt Roberd;
Hys toname ys ‘Grostest
Of Lynkolne’, so seyþ þe gest.
He loved moche to here þe harpe,
For mannys wytte hyt makyþ sharpe;
Next hys chaumbre, besyde hys stody.
Hys harpers chaumbre was fast þerby.
Many tymes, be nygtys and dayys,
He had solace of notes and layys.
One asked hym onys, resun why
He hadde delyte yn mynstralsy.
He answerede hym on þys manere,
Why he helde þe harpe so dere:
‘the vertu of þe harpe, þurgh skylle and rygt,
Wyl destroye þe fendes mygt;

Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;
I plucked it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.

Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon.
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower, my breath has done.

If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love, and music too,

Dear child of mine, the wealth of whose warm hair
Hangs like ripe clusters of the apricot,
Thy blue eyes, gazing, comprehend me not,
But love me, and for love alone I care;
Thou listenest with a shy and serious air,
Like some Sabrina from her weedy grot
Outpeeping coyly when the noon is hot
To watch some shepherd piping unaware.
'Twas not for thee I sang, dear child;—and yet
Would that my song could reach such ears as thine,
Pierce to young hearts unsullied by the fret
Of years in their white innocence divine;

My love she wore a muslin cap and trim[m] ed wi' ribbons blue
What time the trees were full o' sap and meadows cowslips new
In meadows and on meadow banks in baulks and clover too
The white horse daisy's stand in ranks all silvered wi' the dew

My love she wore a pleasant gown and owned a rosy face
The prettiest girl o' half the town the finest i' the place
Her waist was sweet and sweet her size fleshy and fair not tall
Bright as the milkmaids were her eyes her neck white as the wall

A muslin cap my love had on and trimmed wi' ribbons blue

Our love is like the soothing rain
That follows clouds and thunders,
It comes to fill the world again
With fresh and blooming wonders.
It sweeps away all baser things
That flourished once unthwarted,
And washes clean the low and mean
Until they glow transported.

Our love is like the kindly snow
That covers great and small things,
Whose very softness seems to throw
A glamor over all things.
It makes of every common spot
A holy thing and tender,
And every dark and ugly mark
Is hidden by its splendor.

Now leaps the lyric madness
From field and sheltered grove;
They sing about our gladness,
They celebrate our love.

Birds in the distant mountains
Among the pine and fir,
And laughing, leaping fountains,
Are eloquent of her.

Breezes that thread the passes
Of forests far above,
And leaves among the grasses,
Whisper about our love.

Rivers and brooks are theming
Our numbers amorous,
And lakes that lie a-dreaming
Murmur and muse of us.

Bells in the parish steeple
Chant us with ringing tongues,

“The river turns to the peaceful breast
Of the brooding sea,
The red-bird turns to his mate in the nest,
The bud to the bee;
Oh learn, my love, from this sweet unrest—
And turn to me.

“The twilight sinks in the arms of sleep
At the day's decline;
The spent winds softly sink as they weep
In the arms of the pine—
Come down, oh love, from your frowning steep
And sink into mine.

“The breeze has a tale for the ear of the rose,
And her fragrance is stirred;
The Spring has a secret that everyone knows—
But I have not heard;

There is no Death to conquer Spring
And tear us with an unknown pain—
For she will always come to sing
The ancient throbbing back again.
And love, once gained, will live and bring
With every year a fairer flower;
Then why is Youth the only thing
That comes and dies within an hour!

Love is a sirrup; and who er'e we see
Sick and surcharg'd with this sacietie:
Shall by this pleasing trespasse quickly prove,
Ther's loathsomnesse e'en in the sweets of love.