MARIAN SHE can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes; And touch with thrilling fingers. Match her ye across the sea, Swift and lofty soaring; Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing, To set the world a-wooing. She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden. George Meredith [1828-1909] PRAISE OF MY LADY My lady seems of ivory Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Beata mea Domina! Her forehead, overshadowed much Praise of My Lady Not greatly long my lady's hair, Heavy to make the pale face sad, Of some strange metal, thread by thread, Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, Her great eyes, standing far apart, Beata mea Domina! So beautiful and kind they are, I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, Beata mea Domina! Lurking below the underlid, Darkening the place where they lie hid: If they should rise and flow for me! Her full lips being made to kiss, 545 Her lips are not contented now, Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? Beata mea Domina! So passionate and swift to move, That I grow faint to stand and see. Yea! there beneath them is her chin, To feel no weaker when I see Beata mea Domina! God's dealings; for with so much care Beata mea Domina! Of her long neck what shall I say? Set gently waving in the wind; God pity me though, if I missed Inside her tender palm and thin. Madonna Mia All men that see her any time, I charge you straightly in this rhyme, Beata mea Domina! To kneel before her; as for me Beata mea Domina! 547 William Morris [1834-1896] MADONNA MIA UNDER green apple boughs Between two bowers; In either of the twain She hath no handmaid fair She hath no more to wear Against the cold. Beneath her eyelids deep Love lying seems asleep, 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 Their gift of joy is hers, In the least breath that stirs Across the trees. She grows with greenest leaves, The quiet lands and skies None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad. None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands; Though you should search all lands What snows are like her feet, Through gazing on my sweet,— Only this thing is said; That white and gold and red, God's three chief words, man's bread And oil and wine, |