In Cupid's Court

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,

That wast before the flowers of morning blew,

Before the glad sun in his mail of gold

Leapt into light across the first day’s dew;

That art the first and last of our delight,

That in the blue day and the purple night

Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,

Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,

That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden key

And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so bold

But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?

Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,

That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,

To thee did homage in her own despite,

When in the shadow of her wings of white

She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring

To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering,

And in that kiss put off cold chastity.

Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

Master of men and gods, in every fold

Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew

The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,

Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo

The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might

Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.

Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;

Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling

Their spells of healing over land and sea,

One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,

“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold

Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:

Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,

And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:

But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,

The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.

Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring;

Terror and beauty, fear and wondering

Meet on thy front, amazing all who see:

All men do praise thee, ay, and everything!

Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold

The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,

What while the noontide over hill and wold

Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view

Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight

Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.