  When my lady climbs the stair, From the wet, surf-beaten sands, Loosening her cloak of hair, With her slender, foam-white hands, All my soul cries out in me: What fair things God maketh be! Praise her white, and red, and gold; Praise her lips made sweet with mirth, Her grave eyes, that dreaming hold Tears, which tremble ere their birth! Yet what song shall snare the feet Of white dawn upon the wheat? Surely earth’s swift-changing grace, Starry waters, starry skies Fallen in some flower-loved place, Speak such peace as speak her eyes; There earth’s sudden wonders are Glassed, as waters glass a star. Every wandering golden tress Streams out, through the living air, Like a flame for loveliness, And my soul cries out in me: What fair things God maketh be. |
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