Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/500

 WILLIAM STRODE

The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like pretty birds into their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw'd into a tear*

Thence falling on her garments' hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.

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��405 In Commendation of Music

rHEN whispering strains do softly steal With creeping passion through the heart And when at every touch we feel Our pulses beat and bear a part; When threads can make A heartstring shake Philosophy Can scarce deny The soul consists of harmony.

When unto heavenly joy we feign Whate'er the soul affecteth most, Which only thus we can explain By music of the winged host,

Whose lays we think

Make stars to wink,

Philosophy

Can scarce deny Our souls consist of harmony.

O lull me, lull me, charming air, My senses rock with wonder sweet; Like snow on wool thy fallings are, Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.

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