Bianca

The orchard apples hung above,
Golden and red and green.
Her face beneath was ripe for love,
Cat-eyed with sparks between.

Simples she came to gather there
With hands of ivory;
Gold fillets bound her golden hair;
Her gown was cramosie.

She plucked the herbs with subtle grace,
Derisive in her deed.
Was there no Prince to read her face,
No Prince with Beauty’s need?

Her hands with cassia buds were sweet:
“Come, love,” her young heart cried,
The Prince with delicate swift feet,
Was even at her side!

Her tamed white leopard leaped in fear,
Love beckons love so soon.
They gathered no more simples there,
The long late afternoon.