Album of Seven Songs [or Seven Selected Songs]

It lies not on the sunlit hill
    Nor on the sunlit plain :
Nor ever on any running stream
    Nor on the unclouded main --

But sometimes, through the Soul of Man,
    Slow moving o'er his pain,
The moonlight of a perfect peace
    Floods heart and brain.

There is no rose of such virtue
As is the rose that bare Jesu:
Alleluya.

For in this rose contained was
Heaven and earth in little space:
Res miranda1.

By that rose we may well see
That he is God in [person]2 three:
Pari forma3.

The angels sung the shepherds to:
"Gloria in excelsis Deo",
Gaudeamus3.

Leave we all this worldly mirth,
And follow we this joyful birth:
Transeamus.

I go where the sheep go,
With the sheep are my feet:
I go where the kye go,
Their breath is so sweet:
O lover who loves me,
Art thou half so fleet?
Where the sheep climb, the kye go,
There shall we meet!

To Thee, Beloved, of old there came
  The sailers of a thousand ships
Who learned to love Thy hidden name,
  And love the music on Thy lips;

But some, who thought to build Thy pyre
  And on its ruin rear a throne,
Have loved to sit around Thy fire
  And count Thy saddest songs their own;

And sons of Thine, who broke love's bands
  To seek a fabled far-off shore,
Grope thro' the world with aching hands,
  And hunger for Thee evermore;

For, tho' Thy sorrow may not cease,
  Tho', blessing, Thou are still unblest,
Thou has for men a Gift of Peace,
  O Daughter of Divine Unrest!

I come out of the west with the fiddle
I stole from a Genoese ship;
Lord! that was a treasure I captured
When I gave the stranger the slip!

I saw in the flower of the morning
The folk coming up to pray
O! little they'd mind their sins
If my bow were to have its way.

For I could lead them above the clouds
And jewelled oceans of air,
And I'd fiddle a golden laughter
Till the Lord Himself would stare

While the stars swing round in a measure
Never was heard before
And the blessed saints go whirling
Over heavens fiery floor.

Yet earth too was made for laughter
Be it night or dawn or day
And since its a long road to heaven,
We'll dance ev'ry mile of the way.

Give up thy milk to her who calls
Across the low green hills of Heaven
And stream-cool meads of Paradise !

Across the low green hills of Heaven
How sweet to hear the milking call,
The milking call i' the meads of Heaven:

Stream-cool the meads of Paradise,
Across the low green hills of Heaven.

Give up thy milk to her who calls,
Sweet voiced amid the Starry Seven,
Give up thy milk to her who calls !

Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly; 
     may the beaute of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouthe shal be sene.
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
     I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
     So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.