Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/949

 Wee folk, good folk,
 * Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,
 * And white owl's feather!

 

770.

HEY all were looking for a king
 * To slay their foes and lift them high:

Thou cam'st, a little baby thing
 * That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
 * Naught but Thy presence can avail;

Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
 * Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed,
 * But come down Thine own secret stair,

That Thou mayst answer all my need—
 * Yea, every bygone prayer.

 

771.

HE blessèd Damozel lean'd out
 * From the gold bar of Heaven:

Her blue grave eyes were deeper much
 * Than a deep water, even.

She had three lilies in her hand,
 * And the stars in her hair were seven.

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