This poem was first published in Songs in Wiltshire (1909).
I have a host of godly books,
   Wherein all pleasant things are writ;
But none excel my lady's looks,
   Or hold one atom of her wit.

And many be of poets fair,
   Sweet warbling under Southern skies,
Yet not one singer echoing there
   Could tell the mysteries of her eyes.

And some of deep philosophy,
   And teachings of old Wisdom's school;
But all fail of the harmony
   Of her one simple, perfect rule.

And some brimful of tragedies,
   And sacrifice of lovers slain;
And holy wars and infamies,
   And cities sacked, and burnt in vain,

By some strong tyrant's firm decree;
   But all the wonders that they hold
Stir ne'er so rich imagery
   As her warm tresses, auburn-gold.

Some breathe a tale of chivalry,
   And lists won by a dauntless knight,
But all are useless rivalry
   If Love aim but his shaft aright.

And some exalt the sunny South,
   While others hymn the opal East;
I suck the honey from her mouth,
   And dream upon her balmy breast,

Sweet-swooning as the golden bee,
   Pure-innocent in rosy bowers,
And worship with Love's psalmody,
   Encinctured and en-isled with flowers.

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