Classic Poem

Never was morning's blushing face
So beautifully tressed,
Nor, after winter void, the grace
Of spring so fairly dressed;
The mellow breast of the white swan
Was never yet so bleached,
Nor gilded arrows of the sun
With brightness so enriched;

As Jesu's cheek and brow and mouth
With grace are overflowing.
Love shoots a thousand darts from both
His round eyes' fervent glowing
Love has so smitten my sore breast,
(O woe of the sweet pain!)
Love's sake will scarcely let me rest.
I ceaselessly complain.

With tears my welling eyes are filled,
Like bright pearls of the east;
And like rose-water twice distilled,
My years have never ceased
O Eros! chastest, purest passion,
Dipping them in this shower,
Allay thy pinions' burning fashion,
Lest passion overpower.

Thy torch is amply sharp to kill,
Thy wings are never idle,
Therefore shalt thou, of tears, with skill,
Fashion thee bit and bridle;
Be not too fierce thy heat and light,
Nor burn me all to ashes;
Be held, keep pace, and goal in sight;
Employ thy softer flashes.

White arm of Jesus and white hands,
The cygnet is your fellow;
Put forth the power no thing withstands;
Be not your compass mellow;
Hold me with strength against his breast,
Where I may make my moan
In full. I answer for the rest,
Even were his heart of stone.