With Beauty May I Walk

My heart is like a singing bird
  Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
  Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
  That paddles in a [purple]1 sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
  Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of [silk and down]2;
  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
  In leaves and [silver]3 fleur-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
  Is come, my love, is come to me.

                        The miller’s daughter
                        Combs her hair.
                        Like flocks of doves
                        As soft as vair . . .

Oh, how those soft flocks flutter down
Over the empty grassy town.

                        Like a queen in a crown
                        Of gold light, she
                        Sits ’neath the shadows’
                        Flickering tree —

Till the old dame went the way she came.
Playing bob-cherry with a candle-flame.

                        Now Min the cat
                        With her white velvet gloves
                        Watches where sat
                        The mouse with her loves —

(Old and malicious Mrs. Grundy
Whose washing-day is from Monday to Monday).

                        ‘ Not a crumb, ’ said Min,
                        ‘ To a mouse I’ll be giving.
                         For a mouse must spin
                         To earn her living. ’

So poor Mrs. Mouse and her three cross Aunts
Nibble snow that rustles like gold wheat plants.

                         And the miller’s daughter
                         Combs her locks.
                         Like tunning water
                         Those dove-soft flocks ;

And her mouth is sweet as a honey-flower cold
But her heart is heavy as bags of gold.

                         The shadow-mice said,
                        ‘ We will line with down
                         From those doves, our bed
                         And our slippers and gown.

For everything comes to the shadows at last
If the spinning-wheel Time move slow or fast. ’

In beauty may I walk
 . . . . . . . . . .

— The rest of this text is not
currently in the database but will be
added as soon as we obtain it. —