O My Wayward Fair

O my wayward fair, who thus hath reared thee sans all fear to be?
Who hath tendered thee that thus thou shamest e'en the cypress-tree?

Sweeter than all perfume, brighter than all bloom, thy dainty frame;
One would deem some rose had nursed thee in her bosom, love o' me.

Thou hast donned a rose-enwroughten rich brocade, but sore I fear
Lest the shadow of the broidered rose's thorn make thee to dree.

Holding in one hand a bowl, in one a rose, thou camest, sweet;
Ah, I knew not which thereof to take, the bowl, the rose, or thee.

Lo, there springs a jetting fountain from the Stream of Life, methought,
When thou lettest me that lovely lissom shape o' thine to see.

While the mirror of my bosom clear was as thy frame, alas,
For that even once I clipped thee not, thou darling fair and free.

Whensoe'er I ask it, saying: Who hath bowed thy body so?
Thee-ward ever points the beaker at the feast of mirth and glee.