The blessed Damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven: Her blue grave eyes were deeper much Than a deep water, even. She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.
(To one it is ten years of years: ........ Yet now, here in this place Surely she leaned o'er me,—her hair Fell all about my face......... Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.)
It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on,— By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She could scarce see the sun.
It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and blackness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.
But in those tracts, with her, it was The peace of utter light And silence. For no breeze may stir Along the steady flight O seraphim; no echo there, Beyond all depth or height.
Heard hardly, some of her new friends, Playing at holy games, Spake, gentle-mouthed, among themselves, Their virginal chaste names; And the souls, mounting up to God, Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bowed herself, and stooped Into the vast waste calm; Till her bosom's pressure must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.
From the fixt lull of heaven, she saw Time, like a pulse, shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, In that steep gulph, to pierce The swarm: and then she spake, as when The stars sang in their spheres.