VI
Gilded Gold
THOU dost to rich attire a grace,To let it deck itself with thee,And teachest pomp strange cunning waysTo be thought simplicity.But lilies, stolen from grassy mold,No more curlèd state unfoldTranslated to a vase of gold;In burning throne though they keep stillSerenities unthawed and chill.Therefore, albeit thou’rt stately so,In statelier state thou us’dst to go.
Though jewels should phosphoric burnThrough those night-waters of thine hair,A flower from its translucid urnPoured silver flame more lunar-fair.These futile trappings but recallDegenerate worshippers who fallIn purfled kirtle and brocadeTo ’parel the white Mother-Maid.For, as her image stood arrayedIn vests of its self-substance wrought
To measure of the sculptor’s thought—Slurred by those added braveries;So for thy spirit did deviseIts 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 ostentsShould 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 deckWith graces like thine own unsought.Ah! but such place would daze and wreckIts simple, lowly rustic thought.For so advancèd, 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 muchGod’s master-piece thou shouldst retouch.Where a sweetness is complete,Add not sweets unto the sweet!Or, as thou wilt, for others soIn unfamiliar richness go;But keep for mine acquainted eyesThe fashions of thy Paradise.