And beard cut black against the aureole That spanned his head from nape to crown; thereby Mary's gold hair, thick to the girdle-tie Wherein was bound a child with tender feet; Or the broad cross with blood nigh brown on it. Within this house a righteous lord abode, Ser Averardo; patient of his mood, And just of judgment; and to child he had A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad Men sorrowing, and unbound the brows of hate; And where she came, the lips that pain made strait Waxed warm and wide, and from untender grew Tender as those that sleep brings patience to. Such long locks had she, that with knee to chin She might have wrapped and warmed her feet therein. Right seldom fell her face on weeping wise; Gold hair she had, and golden-coloured eyes, Filled with clear light and fire and large repose Like a fair hound's; no man there is but knows Her face was white, and thereto she was tall; In no wise lacked there any praise at all To her most perfect and pure maidenhood; No sin I think there was in all her blood. She, where a gold grate shut the roses in, Dwelt daily through deep summer weeks, through green Flushed hours of rain upon the leaves; and there Love made him room and space to worship her With tender worship of bowed knees, and wrought Such pleasure as the pained sense palates not For weariness, but at one taste undoes The heart of its strong sweet, is ravenous Of all the hidden honey; words and sense Fail through the tune's imperious prevalence. In a poor house this lover kept apart, Long communing with patience next his heart If love of his might move that face at all, Tuned evenwise with colours musical; Then after length of days he said thus: "Love, For love's own sake and for the love thereof Let no harsh words untune your gracious mood; For good it were, if anything be good, To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine; Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wine Seems pleasant to me, yea no thing that is Seems pleasant to me; only I know this, Love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feet To travel, but the end of such is sweet: Now do with me as seemeth you the best." She mused a little, as one holds his guest By the hand musing, with her face borne down: Then said: "Yea, though such bitter seed be sown, Have no more care of all that you have said; Since if there is no sleep will bind your head, Lo, I am fain to help you certainly; Christ knoweth, sir, if I would have you die; There is no pleasure when a man is dead." Thereat he kissed her hands and yellow head And clipped her fair long body many times; I have no wit to shape in written rhymes A scanted tithe of this great joy they had. They were too near love's secret to be glad; As whoso deems the core will surely melt From the warm fruit his lips caress, hath felt Some bitter kernel where the teeth shut hard: