Madonna Mia

Under green apple-boughs     That never a storm will rouse,     My lady hath her house     Between two bowers;     In either of the twain     Red roses full of rain;     She hath for bondwomen     All kind of flowers.     She hath no handmaid fair     To draw her curled gold hair     Through rings of gold that bear     Her whole hairs weight;     She hath no maids to stand     Gold-clothed on either hand;     In all the great green land     None is so great.     She hath no more to wear     But one white hood of vair     Drawn over eyes and hair,     Wrought with strange gold,     Made for some great queens head,     Some fair great queen since dead;     And one strait gown of red     Against the cold.     Beneath her eyelids deep     Love lying seems asleep,     Love, swift to wake, to weep,     To laugh, to gaze;     Her breasts are like white birds,     And all her gracious words     As water-grass to herds     In the June-days.     To her all dews that fall     And rains are musical;     Her flowers are fed from all,     Her joy from these;     In the deep-feathered firs     Their gift of joy is hers,     In the least breath that stirs     Across the trees.     She grows with greenest leaves,     Ripens with reddest sheaves,     Forgets, remembers, grieves,     And is not sad;     The quiet lands and skies     Leave light upon her eyes;     None knows her, weak or wise,     Or tired or glad.     None knows, none understands,     What flowers are like her hands;     Though you should search all lands     Wherein time grows,     What snows are like her feet,     Though his eyes burn with heat     Through gazing on my sweet,     Yet no man knows.     Only this thing is said;     That white and gold and red,     Gods three chief words, mans bread     And oil and wine,     Were given her for dowers,     And kingdom of all hours,     And grace of goodly flowers     And various vine.     This is my ladys praise:     God after many days     Wrought her in unknown ways,     In sunset lands;     This was my ladys birth;     God gave her might and mirth     And laid his whole sweet earth     Between her hands.     Under deep apple-boughs     My lady hath her house;     She wears upon her brows     The flower thereof;     All saying but what God saith     To her is as vain breath;     She is more strong than death,     Being strong as love.