Needs must that spot with spices spread, Where such wealth falleth to decay; Fair flowers, golden and blue and red, Shine in the sunlight day by day; Nor flower nor fruit have witherèd On turf wherein such treasure lay; The blade grows where the grain lies dead, Else were no ripe wheat stored away; Of good come good things, so we say, Then surely such seed faileth not, But spices spring in sweet array From my pearl, precious, without spot. Once, to that spot of which I rhyme, I entered, in the arbour green, In August, the high summer-time When corn is cut with sickles keen; Upon the mound where my pearl fell, Tall, shadowing herbs grew bright and sheen, Gilliflower, ginger and gromwell, With peonies powdered all between. As it was lovely to be seen, So sweet the fragrance there, I wot, Worthy her dwelling who hath been My own pearl, precious, without spot. Upon that spot my hands I crossed In prayer, for cold at my heart caught, And sudden sorrow surged and tossed, Though reason reconcilement sought. I mourned my pearl, dear beyond cost, And strange fears with my fancy fought; My will in wretchedness was lost, And yet Christ comforted my thought. Such odours to my sense were brought, I fell upon that flowery plot, Sleeping,--a sleep with dreams inwrought Of my pearl, precious, without spot. II From the spot my spirit springs into space, The while my body sleeping lies; My ghost is gone in God's good grace, Adventuring mid mysteries; I know not what might be the place, But I looked where tall cliffs cleave the skies, Toward a forest I turned my face, Where ranks of radiant rocks arise. A man might scarce believe his eyes, Such gleaming glory was from them sent; No woven web may men devise Of half such wondrous beauties blent. In beauty shone each fair hillside With crystal cliffs in shining row, While bright woods everywhere abide, Their boles as blue as indigo; Like silver clear the leaves spread wide, That on each spray thick-quivering grow; If a flash of light across them glide With shimmering sheen they gleam and glow; The gravel on the ground below Seemed precious pearls of Orient; The sunbeams did but darkling show So gloriously those beauties blent. The beauty of the hills so fair Made me forget my sufferings; I breathed fruit fragrance fine and rare, As if I fed on unseen things; Brave birds fly through the woodland there, Of flaming hues, and each one sings; With their mad mirth may not compare Cithern nor gayest citole-strings; For when those bright birds beat their wings, They sing together, all content; Keen joy to any man it brings To hear and see such beauties blent.