The blessed Damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven:
Her blue-grey eyes were deeper much
Than a deep water, even.
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
II.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift
On the neck meetly worn;
And her hair, lying down her back,
Was yellow like ripe corn.
III.
Herseemed 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.
IV.
(To one it is ten years of years
. . . Yet now, here in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me,—her hair
Fell all about my face . . .
Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)