Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/306

 On a small cithern, full of tears and sleep And heavy pleasure that is quick to weep And sorrow with the honey in her mouth; And for this might of music that he doth Are all souls drawn toward him with great love And weep for sweetness of the noise thereof And bow to him with worship of their knees; And all the field is thick with companies Of fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutes And gather honey of the yellow fruits Between the branches waxen soft and wide: And all this peace endures in either side Of the green land, and God beholdeth all. And this is girdled with a round fair wall Made of red stone and cool with heavy leaves Grown out against it, and green blossom cleaves To the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet, Kissing the crannies that are split with heat, And branches where the summer draws to head. And Theophile burnt in the cheek, and said: Yea, could one see it, this were marvellous. I pray you, at your coming to this house, Give me some leaf of all those tree-branches; Seeing how so sharp and white our weather is, There is no green nor gracious red to see. Yea, sir, she said, that shall I certainly. And from her long sweet throat without a fleck Undid the gold, and through her stretched-out neck