Panegyric: To Her

Her eyes are clear and as fair
As waters from a holy spring,
As snow-filtered winter air,
As skylark-song on wing.
Two pools of blooms that sing,
They shine beneath her hair,
Like a crown upon a king,
Like jewels radiant-rare.

Her golden hair flows down
Like the snow in a stream,
Like the wind from heaven's crown,
Like rivers in a dream.
Its subtle, soft and aurum gleam
Pulls me in to drown
In a sea as soft as cream
By roses overgrown.

Her spirit cuts through me
As a knight's battle-lance,
As the lightning on the sea,
As the music in a dance.
Strengths like wild horses prance
About her, fair and free,
An offering made at such chance
As Heaven weeps to see.

Her goodness is such made
As thunder among the gods,
As the greenness in a glade,
As the strike of chariot rods.
Irresistible, where she has trod
It flows in a cavalcade
Of goods both tempting and odd,
From a land far-off laid.

And well I love her, both
For the beauty she can
No more hide than the moth
Can live past the fire's span,
And for her living weaving's fan
Of character-spun cloth.
Ah, that she loves a man
Is something I must loathe!