________________________________________________
Title: Praise Of My Lady
Author: William Morris [
More Titles by Morris]
My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow'd a little mournfully.
_Beata mea Domina!_
Her forehead, overshadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
_Beata mea Domina!_
Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisped wonderfully:
_Beata mea Domina!_
Heavy to make the pale face sad,
And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
_Beata mea Domina!_
Of some strange metal, thread by thread,
To stand out from my lady's head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
_Beata mea Domina!_
Beneath her brows the lids fall slow.
The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I would wish my lips to be.
_Beata mea Domina!_
Her great eyes, standing far apart,
Draw up some memory from her heart,
And gaze out very mournfully;
_Beata mea Domina!_
So beautiful and kind they are,
But most times looking out afar,
Waiting for something, not for me.
_Beata mea Domina!_
I wonder if the lashes long
Are those that do her bright eyes wrong,
For always half tears seem to be
_Beata mea Domina!_
Lurking below the underlid,
Darkening the place where they lie hid:
If they should rise and flow for me!
_Beata mea Domina!_
Her full lips being made to kiss,
Curl'd up and pensive each one is;
This makes me faint to stand and see.
_Beata mea Domina!_
Her lips are not contented now,
Because the hours pass so slow
Towards a sweet time: (pray for me),
_Beata mea Domina!_
Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell?
But this at least I know full well,
Her lips are parted longingly,
_Beata mea Domina!_
So passionate and swift to move,
To pluck at any flying love,
That I grow faint to stand and see.
_Beata mea Domina_!
Yea! there beneath them is her chin,
So fine and round, it were a sin
To feel no weaker when I see
_Beata mea Domina_!
God's dealings; for with so much care
And troublous, faint lines wrought in there,
He finishes her face for me.
_Beata mea Domina_!
Of her long neck what shall I say?
What things about her body's sway,
Like a knight's pennon or slim tree
_Beata mea Domina_!
Set gently waving in the wind;
Or her long hands that I may find
On some day sweet to move o'er me?
_Beata mea Domina!_
God pity me though, if I miss'd
The telling, how along her wrist
The veins creep, dying languidly
_Beata mea Domina!_
Inside her tender palm and thin.
Now give me pardon, dear, wherein
My voice is weak and vexes thee.
_Beata mea Domina!_
All men that see her any time,
I charge you straightly in this rhyme,
What, and wherever you may be,
_Beata mea Domina!_
To kneel before her; as for me,
I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously.
_Beata mea Domina!_
[The end]
William Morris's poem: Praise Of My Lady
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
