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 | |
10 | 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 the great green land | |
None is so great. | |
She hath no more to wear | |
But one white hood of vair | |
Drawn over eyes and hair, | |
20 | 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, | |
30 | 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 joy from these; | |
In the deep-feathered firs | |
Their gift of joy is hers, | |
In the least breath that stirs | |
40 | 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, | |
50 | 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 | |
60 | 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 was my lady’s birth; | |
70 | 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, | |
80 | Being strong as love. |