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THE BLESSED DAMOZEL THE blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. 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. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and 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.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, acro . . .
