You are very fair, Felice, wondrous fair,
And the light deep in your eyes
Is more soft than summer skies,
And pink roses in your cheek
Play with lilies hide-and-seek, —
Play as Pleasure plays with Care.

And your throat is white, Felice, wondrous white,
White as sifted snow, I wis,
Ere the sun hath stol'n a kiss,
High up starry mountain-heights,
Or as in rich moonful nights
Parian baths in Cynthia's light.

And, Felice, your rippling waves of soft hair,
In their mystic depths aye hold
Shade and shimmer of red gold,

A mouth red-ripened like a warm, sweet rose,
Wherein are gleaming pearls all pure and bright
As dewdrops nestled where the zephyr blows
With pinion soft across the humid night;
A cheek not ruddy, but soft-tinged and fair,
Where whiles the rich patrician blood is seen,
As though it knew itself a thing too rare
For common gaze, yet did its high demean;
A brow serene and pure as her white soul,
By which the sifted snow would blackened seem
That sleeps untrodden where the Northern pole
Rests calm, unscanned save by the Moon's chaste beam;

Once more the northbound Wonder
Brings back the goose and crane,
Prophetic Sons of Thunder,
Apostles of the Rain.

In many a battling river
The broken gorges boom;
Behold, the Mighty Giver
Emerges from the tomb!

Now robins chant the story
Of how the wintry sward
Is litten with the glory
Of the Angel of the Lord.

His countenance is lightning
And still His robe is snow,
As when the dawn was brightening
Two thousand years ago.

O who can be a stranger
To what has come to pass?
The Pity of the Manger

To worship mee, why come ye, fooles, abroad?
For artizans made me a demi-god.

Sancher, whom this earth scarce could containe,
Hauing seene Italie, France, and Spaine,
To finish his travelles, a spectacle rare,
Was bound towards heauen, but dyed in the aire.

A Christmas Ballade of Good Counsel

'Twas in the rare old feudal time—the day of dim tradition—
When errant knight, in armor dight, rode forth on roving mission;

When troubadour, in gay array, besought the love-lorn maiden,
And warbled airs to banish cares from hearts with sorrow laden.

'Twas in those dear romantic days of joust and martial glory,
A maiden, fair beyond compare, dwelt on a promontory.

Below her swiftly flowed the rhine, its waters brightly gleaming,
Whilst dead men's bones amongst the stones bore witness to her scheming.

Hark, the music calling!
From the earth it grows,
From the sky 'tis falling,
In the wind it blows!

Silver-noted star-gleams
Through the moony glooms;
Golden-noted sunbeams
Wooing cherry blooms!

Flying-fingered Winds smite
Throbbing strings of rain;
Through the misty midnight
Moans the Growing Pain!

Cradle-buds are shaken
By a hand they know:
Brother, Sister, waken —
'Tis the time to grow!

Trade softlie, passenger, upon this stone,
For heere enclosed stayes,
Debarred of mercie's rayes,
A soule, whose bodye swore it had not one.

I

You wish to be a poet, Little Man?
More verses limping 'neath their big intent?
Well—one must be a poet if one can!
But do you know the way the others went?

Who buys of gods must pay a heavy fee.
The world loves not its dreamers overmuch:
And he who longs to drink at Castaly,
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch.

One sins by being different, it seems;
At least so in our human commonweal.
Who goes to market with his minted dreams,
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal.

Flyting no reason hath, for at this tyme,
It doth not stand with reason, but in ryme.
That none saue thus should flyte, had wee a law,
What rest had wee? how would wyves stand in aw,
And learne the art of ryming! Then how well
Would this and all good flyting pamphlets sell!