The Blessed Damozel

The blessed damozel lean'd out
         From the gold bar of Heaven;
     Her eyes were deeper than the depth
         Of waters still'd at even;
     She had three lilies in her hand,
         And the stars in her hair were seven.

     Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
         No wrought flowers did adorn,
     But a white rose of Mary's gift,
       For service meetly worn;
   Her hair that lay along her back
       Was yellow like ripe corn.

   Her seem'd she scarce had been a day
       One of God's choristers;
   The wonder was not yet quite gone
       From that still look of hers;
   Albeit, to them she left, her day
       Had counted as ten years.

   (To one, it is ten years of years.
       . . . Yet now, and in this place,
   Surely she lean'd o'er me--her hair
       Fell all about my face ....
   Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.
       The whole year sets apace.)

   It was the rampart of God's house
       That she was standing on;
   By God built over the sheer depth
       The which is Space begun;
   So high, that looking downward thence
       She scarce could see the sun.

   It lies in Heaven, across the flood
       Of ether, as a bridge.
   Beneath, the tides of day and night
       With flame and darkness ridge
   The void, as low as where this earth
       Spins like a fretful midge.

   Around her, lovers, newly met
       'Mid deathless love's acclaims,
   Spoke evermore among themselves
       Their heart-remember'd names;
   And the souls mounting up to God
       Went by her like thin flames.

   And still she bow'd herself and stoop'd
       Out of the circling charm;
   Until her bosom must have made
       The bar she lean'd on warm,
   And the lilies lay as if asleep
       Along her bended arm.

   From the fix'd place of Heaven she saw
       Time like a pulse shake fierce
   Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
       Within the gulf to pierce
   Its path; and now she spoke as when
       The stars sang in their spheres.

   The sun was gone now; the curl'd moon
       Was like a little feather
   Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
       She spoke through the still weather.
   Her voice was like the voice the stars
         Had when they sang together.

   (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,
       Strove not her accents there,
   Fain to be hearken'd? When those bells
       Possess'd the mid-day air,
   Strove not her steps to reach my side
       Down all the echoing stair?)

   "I wish that he were come to me,
       For he will come," she said.
   "Have I not pray'd in Heaven?--on earth,
       Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd?
   Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
       And shall I feel afraid?

   "When round his head the aureole clings,
       And he is cloth'd in white,
   I'll take his hand and go with him
       To the deep wells of light;
   As unto a stream we will step down,
       And bathe there in God's sight.

   "We two will stand beside that shrine,
       Occult, withheld, untrod,
   Whose lamps are stirr'd continually
       With prayer sent up to God;
   And see our old prayers, granted, melt
       Each like a little cloud.

   "We two will lie i' the shadow of
       That living mystic tree
   Within whose secret growth the Dove
       Is sometimes felt to be,
   While every leaf that His plumes touch
       Saith His Name audibly.

   "And I myself will teach to him,
       I myself, lying so,
   The songs I sing here; which his voice
       Shall pause in, hush'd and slow,
   And find some knowledge at each pause,
       Or some new thing to know."

   (Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st!
       Yea, one wast thou with me
   That once of old. But shall God lift
     To endless unity
 The soul whose likeness with thy soul
     Was but its love for thee?)

 "We two," she said, "will seek the groves
     Where the lady Mary is,
 With her five handmaidens, whose names
     Are five sweet symphonies,
 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
     Margaret and Rosalys.

 "Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
     And foreheads garlanded;
 Into the fine cloth white like flame
     Weaving the golden thread,
 To fashion the birth-robes for them
     Who are just born, being dead.

 "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: