Gilded Gold

Thou dost to rich attire a grace,

To let it deck itself with thee,

And teachest pomp strange cunning ways

To be thought simplicity.

But lilies, stolen from grassy mold,

No more curled state unfold

Translated to a vase of gold;

In burning throne though they keep still

Serenities unthawed and chill.

Therefore, albeit thou'rt stately so,

In statelier state thou us'dst to go.

Though jewels should phosphoric burn

Through those night-waters of thine hair,

A flower from its translucid urn

Poured silver flame more lunar-fair.

These futile trappings but recall

Degenerate worshippers who fall

In purfled kirtle and brocade

To 'parel the white Mother-Maid.

For, as her image stood arrayed

In vests of its self-substance wrought

To measure of the sculptor's thought -

Slurred by those added braveries;

So for thy spirit did devise

Its Maker seemly garniture,

Of its own essence parcel pure, -

From grave simplicities a dress,

And reticent demurenesses,

And love encinctured with reserve;

Which the woven vesture should subserve.

For outward robes in their ostents

Should show the soul's habiliments.

Therefore I say,—Thou'rt fair even so,

But better Fair I use to know.

The violet would thy dusk hair deck

With graces like thine own unsought.

Ah! but such place would daze and wreck

Its simple, lowly rustic thought.

For so advanced, dear, to thee,

It would unlearn humility!

Yet do not, with an altered look,

In these weak numbers read rebuke;

Which are but jealous lest too much

God's master-piece thou shouldst retouch.

Where a sweetness is complete,

Add not sweets unto the sweet!

Or, as thou wilt, for others so

In unfamiliar richness go;

But keep for mine acquainted eyes

The fashions of thy Paradise.