I worshippe thee thou silverre starre,
As thron’d amid the vault of blue,
Rushes thy queenlye splendoure farre,
O’er mountain top and vale of dewe.
Yette more I love thy infante ray,
As risinge from its easterne cave,
With circlinge, fearfulle, fonde delaye,
It seemes to kisse the crimsone wave.
I love the proud and solemne sweepe
Of harpe and trumpette’s harmonye,
Like swellinges of the midnighte deepe,
Like anthemes of the opening skye.
But lovelier to my heart the tone
That dies along the twilighte’s winge,
Just heard, a silver sigh, and gone,
As if a spiritte touch’d the stringe.
Sweete Marie! swiftlye comes the noone
That gives thy beautye all its rayes,
And thou shalte be the rose, alone,
And heartes shall wither in its blaze.
Yette there are eyes had deeper loved
That rosebudde in its matine-beam,
The dew droppe on its blushe unmoved—
And shalle mye love be all a dreame?
Pulci.