| HAIL, sister springs, | |
| Parents of silver-footed rills! | |
| Ever bubbling things, | |
| Thawing crystal, snowy hills! | |
| Still spending, never spent; I mean | 5 |
| Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. | |
| |
| Heavens thy fair eyes be; | |
| Heavens of ever-falling stars; | |
| 'Tis seed-time still with thee, | |
| And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares | 10 |
| Promise the earth to countershine | |
| Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine. | |
| |
| Every morn from hence | |
| A brisk cherub something sips | |
| Whose soft influence | 15 |
| Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; | |
| Then to his music: and his song | |
| Tastes of this breakfast all day long. | |
| |
| When some new bright guest | |
| Takes up among the stars a room, | 20 |
| And Heaven will make a feast, | |
| Angels with their bottles come, | |
| And draw from these full eyes of thine | |
| Their Master's water, their own wine. | |
| |
| The dew no more will weep | 25 |
| The primrose's pale cheek to deck; | |
| The dew no more will sleep | |
| Nuzzled in the lily's neck: | |
| Much rather would it tremble here, | |
| And leave them both to be thy tear. | 30 |
| |
| When sorrow would be seen | |
| In her brightest majesty, | |
| —For she is a Queen— | |
| Then is she drest by none but thee: | |
| Then and only then she wears | 35 |
| Her richest pearls—I mean thy tears. | |
| |
| Not in the evening's eyes, | |
| When they red with weeping are | |
| For the Sun that dies, | |
| Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. | 40 |
| Nowhere but here did ever meet | |
| Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. | |
| |
| Does the night arise? | |
| Still thy tears do fall and fall. | |
| Does night lose her eyes? | 45 |
| Still the fountain weeps for all. | |
| Let day and night do what they will, | |
| Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still. | |
| |
| Not So long she lived | |
| Will thy tomb report of thee; | 50 |
| But So long she grieved: | |
| Thus must we date thy memory. | |
| Others by days, by months, by years, | |
| Measure their ages, thou by tears. | |
| |
| Say, ye bright brothers, | 55 |
| The fugitive sons of those fair eyes | |
| Your fruitful mothers, | |
| What make you here? What hopes can 'tice | |
| You to be born? What cause can borrow | |
| You from those nests of noble sorrow? | 60 |
| |
| Whither away so fast | |
| For sure the sordid earth | |
| Your sweetness cannot taste, | |
| Nor does the dust deserve your birth. | |
| Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, | 65 |
| Why you trip so fast away? | |
| |
| We go not to seek | |
| The darlings of Aurora's bed, | |
| The rose's modest cheek, | |
| Nor the violet's humble head. | 70 |
| No such thing: we go to meet | |
| A worthier object—our Lord's feet. | |
