Поэтический мир прерафаэлитов

My lady seems of ivory
Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be
Hollow’d a little mournfully.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her forehead, overshadow’d much

By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Not greatly long my lady’s hair,

Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisped wonderfully:
            Beata mea Domina!

Heavy to make the pale face sad,

And dark, but dead as though it had
Been forged by God most wonderfully
         — Beata mea Domina! —

Of some strange metal, thread by thread,

To stand out from my lady’s head,
Not moving much to tangle me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow,

The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I would wish my lips to be.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her great eyes, standing far apart,

Draw up some memory from her heart,
And gaze out very mournfully;
        — Beata mea Domina! —

So beautiful and kind they are,

But most times looking out afar,
Waiting for something, not for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

I wonder if the lashes long

Are those that do her bright eyes wrong,
For always half tears seem to be
        — Beata mea Domina! —

Lurking below the underlid,

Darkening the place where they lie hid —
If they should rise and flow for me!
            Beata mea Domina!

Her full lips being made to kiss,

Curl’d up and pensive each one is;
This makes me faint to stand and see.
            Beata mea Domina!

Her lips are not contented now,

Because the hours pass so slow
Towards a sweet time: (pray for me,)
        — Beata mea Domina! —

Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell?

But this at least I know full well,
Her lips are parted longingly,
       — Beata mea Domina! —

So passionate and swift to move,

To pluck at any flying love,
That I grow faint to stand and see.
            Beata mea Domina!

Yea! there beneath them is her chin,

So fine and round, it were a sin
To feel no weaker when I see
         — Beata mea Domina! —

God’s dealings; for with so much care

And troublous, faint lines wrought in there,
He finishes her face for me.
            Beata mea Domina!

Of her long neck what shall I say?

What things about her body’s sway,
Like a knight’s pennon or slim tree
        — Beata mea Domina! —

Set gently waving in the wind;

Or her long hands that I may find
On some day sweet to move o’er me?
            Beata mea Domina!

God pity me though, if I miss’d

The telling, how along her wrist
The veins creep, dying languidly
             — Beata mea Domina! —

Inside her tender palm and thin.

Now give me pardon, dear, wherein
My voice is weak and vexes thee.
            Beata mea Domina!

All men that see her any time,

I charge you straightly in this rhyme,
What, and wherever you may be,
         — Beata mea Domina! —

To kneel before her; as for me,

I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously.
            Beata mea Domina!