Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/336

 She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair, 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, 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 Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves,