And when I saw her, then I worshipped her, And said,—O bounteous Spring, O beauteous Spring, Mother of all my years, thou who dost stir My heart to adore thee and my tongue to sing, Flower of my fruit, of my heart’s blood the fire, Of all my satisfaction the desire! How art thou every year more beautiful, Younger for all the winters thou hast cast: And I, for all my love grows, grow more dull, Decaying with each season overpast! In vain to teach him love must man employ thee, The more he learns the less he can enjoy thee. 4 WOOING I know not how I came, New on my knightly journey, To win the fairest dame That graced my maiden tourney. Chivalry’s lovely prize With all men’s gaze upon her, Why did she free her eyes On me, to do me honour? Ah! ne’er had I my mind With such high hope delighted, Had she not first inclined, And with her eyes invited. But never doubt I knew, Having their glance to cheer me, Until the day joy grew Too great, too sure, too near me. When hope a fear became, And passion, grown too tender, Now trembled at the shame Of a despised surrender; And where my love at first Saw kindness in her smiling, I read her pride, and cursed The arts of her beguiling. Till winning less than won, And liker wooed than wooing, Too late I turned undone Away from my undoing; And stood beside the door, Whereto she followed, making My hard leave-taking more Hard by her sweet leave-taking. Her speech would have betrayed Her thought, had mine been colder: Her eyes distress had made A lesser lover bolder. But no! Fond heart, distrust, Cried Wisdom, and consider: Go free, since go thou must;— And so farewell I bid her. And brisk upon my way I smote the stroke to sever, And should have lost that day My life’s delight for ever: But when I saw her start And turn aside and tremble;— Ah! she was true, her heart I knew did not dissemble. 5 There is a hill beside the silver Thames, Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine: And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems Steeply the thickets to his floods decline. Straight trees in every place Their thick tops interlace, And pendant branches trail their foliage fine Upon his watery face. Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows: His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made. His winter floods lay bare The stout roots in the air: His summer streams are cool, when they have played Among their fibrous hair.