  Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me; Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: —Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie: Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest: A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow: Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.' I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish——no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions:—but her story. R. Crashaw |
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