Thomas Woolner (1825–1892)

I LOVE my Lady; she is very fair;

Her brow is wan and bound by simple hair;

Her spirit sits aloft and high,

But glances from her tender eye

In sweetness droopingly.

As a young forest while the wind drives thro’,

My life is stirr’d when she breaks on my view;

Her beauty grants my will no choice

But silent awe, till she rejoice

My longing with her voice.

Her warbling voice, tho’ ever low and mild,

Oft makes me feel as strong wine would a child;

And tho’ her hand be airy light

Of touch, it moves me with its might

As would a sudden fright.

A hawk high poised in air, whose nerved wing-tips

Tremble with might suppress’d before he dips,

In vigilance, scarce more intense

Than I, when her voice holds my sense

Contented in suspense.

Her mention of a thing, august or poor,

Makes it far nobler than it was before:

As, where the sun strikes, life will gush

And what is pale receive a flush,

Rich hues, a richer blush.

My Lady’s name when I hear strangers use,

Not meaning her, to me seems lax misuse;

I love none but my Lady’s name;

Maud, Grace, Rose, Marian, all the same

Are harsh, or blank and tame.

My lady walks as I have watch’d a swan

Swim where a glory on the water shone:

There ends of willow-branches ride

Quivering in the flowing tide,

By the deep river’s side.

Fresh beauties, howsoe’er she moves, are stirr’d;

As the sunn’d bosom of a humming-bird

At each pant lifts some fiery hue,

Fierce gold, bewildering green or blue—

The same, yet ever new.