Thou dost to rich attire a grace, To let it deck itself with thee, And teachest pomp strange cunning ways To be thought simplicity.
But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold Translated to a vase of gold;
In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.
Therefore, albeit thou'rt stately so, In statelier state thou us'dst to go.
Though jewels should phosphoric burn Through those night-waters of thine hair, A flower from its translucid urn Poured silver flame more lunar-fair.
These futile trappings but recall Degenerate worshippers who fall In purfled kirtle and brocade To 'parel the white Mother-Maid.
For, as her image stood arrayed In vests of its self-substance wrought To measure of the sculptor's thought -
Slurred by those added braveries;
So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure, -
From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demurenesses, And love encinctured with reserve;
Which the woven vesture should subserve.
For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments.
Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.
The violet would thy dusk hair deck With graces like thine own unsought.
Ah! but such place would daze and wreck Its ******, lowly rustic thought.
For so advanced, dear, to thee, It would unlearn humility!
Yet do not, with an altered look, In these weak numbers read rebuke;
Which are but jealous lest too much God's master-piece thou shouldst retouch.
Where a sweetness is complete, Add not sweets unto the sweet!
Or, as thou wilt, for others so In unfamiliar richness go;
But keep for mine acquainted eyes The fashions of thy Paradise.
