She was more fair than beauty,
More exquisite than light,
Sweet as a strain of music,
More perfect than delight.

And brighter than the rainbow,
And fresher than the dew,
Like honey were the numbers
Upon her lips that grew.

She was more mild than mercy,
She was more true than truth,
She was more firm than iron,
She was more young than youth;

Than piety more tender,
Than equity more straight,
Than branching palms more slender,
More resolute than fate.

She was more gay than morning,
She was more fresh than health,
She was more dear than kindness,
She was more rich than wealth.

She smote upon her harpstring,
She smote upon my heart:
Fair Dunstan!  Lo, this anvil
Is wax beneath thine art.

But I have lived before thee,
And I must live again:
Since life must curtain o'er thee,
Why swathe this soul in pain?

Oh, hide thee from my glances,
And vanish like a breath!
For to woo thee would be madness,
And to give thee up is death!