Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/950

 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years:  Yet now, here in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me,—her hair  Fell all about my face Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.  The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on,— By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.