Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Beautiful Maiden

A Beautiful Maiden.

Whence that completed form of all completeness?Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, oh where!Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair?Not oat-sheaves dropping in the western sun;Not thy soft hand, fair sister! Let me shunSuch follying before thee—yet she had,Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad; And they were simply gordianed up and braided,Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;The which were blended in, I know not how,With such a paradise of lips and eyes,Blush-tinted cheeks, half-smiles, and faintest sighs,That when I think thereon, my spirit clingsAnd plays about its fancy, till the stingsOf human neighbourhood envenom all.Unto what awful power shall I call?To what high fane?—Ah! see her hovering feet.More bluely veined, more soft, more whitely sweetThan those of sea-born Venus, when she roseFrom out her cradle shell. The wind out-blowsHer scarf into a fluttering pavilion;'Tis blue and over-spangled with a millionOf little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,Over the darkest, loveliest bluebell bed,Handfuls of daisies.