r form lowly laid:--
The thought renews my awe!
How sweetly did her tresses fling
Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed
Fire, frost within me played,
While I beheld the bloom
Of laughing flowers--O day of bliss!--
Around those tresses meet and kiss,
And roses in her lap of Love the home!
Her grace, her port divinely fair,
Describe it, Love! myself I do not dare.
In mute intent surprise
I gazed, as when a hind is seen
To dote upon its image in a rill;
Drinking those love-lit eyes,
Those hands, that face, those words serene,
That song which with delight the heaven did fill,
That smile which thralls me still,
Which melteth stones unkind,
Which in this woodland wilderness
Tames every beast and stills the stress
Of hurrying waters. Would that I could find
Her footprints upon field or grove!
I should not then be envious of Jove.
Thou cool stream rippling by,
Where oft it pleased her to dip
Her naked foot, how blest art thou!
Ye branching trees on high,
That spread your gnarled roots on the lip
Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew!
She often leaned on you,
She who is my life's bliss!
Thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown,
How do I envy thee thy throne,
Found worthy to receive such happiness!
Ye winds, how blissful must ye be,
Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony!
The winds that music bore,
And wafted it to God on high,
That Paradise might have the joy thereof.
Flowers here she plucked, and wore
Wild roses from the thorn hard by:
This air she lightened with her look of love:
This running stream above,
She bent her face!--Ah me!
Where am I? What sweet makes me swoon?
What calm is in the kiss of noon?
Who brought me here? Who speaks? What melody?
Whence came pure peace into my soul?
What joy hath rapt me from my own control?

Poliziano's refrain is always: 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. It is
spring-time now and youth. Winter and old age are coming!' A _Maggio_,
or May-day song, describing the games, dances, and jousting matches of
the Florentine lads upon the morning of the first of May, expresses
this facile philosophy of life with a quaintness that recalls Herrick.
It will be noticed that the Maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on
the same system as Poliziano's Ballata. It has considerable