Of fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutes And gather honey of the yellow fruits Between the branches waxen soft and wide: And all this peace endures in either side Of the green land, and God beholdeth all. And this is girdled with a round fair wall Made of red stone and cool with heavy leaves Grown out against it, and green blossom cleaves To the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet, Kissing the crannies that are split with heat, And branches where the summer draws to head. And Theophile burnt in the cheek, and said: Yea, could one see it, this were marvellous. I pray you, at your coming to this house, Give me some leaf of all those tree-branches; Seeing how so sharp and white our weather is, There is no green nor gracious red to see. Yea, sir, she said, that shall I certainly. And from her long sweet throat without a fleck Undid the gold, and through her stretched-out neck The cold axe clove, and smote away her head: Out of her throat the tender blood full red Fell suddenly through all her long soft hair. And with good speed for hardness of the air Each man departed to his house again. Lo, as fair colour in the face of men At seed-time of their blood, or in such wise As a thing seen increaseth in men's eyes, Caught first far off by sickly fits of sight, So a word said, if one shall hear aright, Abides against the season of its growth. This Theophile went slowly, as one doth That is not sure for sickness of his feet; And counting the white stonework of the street, Tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and love, Making him weep more for the shame thereof Than for true pain: so went he half a mile. And women mocked him, saying: Theophile, Lo, she is dead; what shall a woman have That loveth such an one? so Christ me save, I were as lief to love a man new-hung. Surely this man has bitten on his tongue, This makes him sad and writhled in his face. And when they came upon the paven place That was called sometime the place amorous There came a child before Theophilus Bearing a basket, and said suddenly: Fair sir, this is my mistress Dorothy That sends you gifts; and with this he was gone. In all this earth there is not such an one For colour and straight stature made so fair. The tender growing gold of his pure hair Was as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame. God called him Holy after his own name; With gold cloth like fire burning he was clad. But for the fair green basket that he had, It was filled up with heavy white and red; Great roses stained still where the first rose bled, Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds: And the sad colour of strong marigolds That have the sun to kiss their lips for love; The flower that Venus' hair is woven of, The colour of fair apples in the sun, Late peaches gathered when the heat was done And the slain air got breath; and after these