Romance of the Rose

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MDCCCC • PUBLISHED • BY • J • M • DENT AND • CO : ALDINE HOUSE • LONDON • W • C

THE TEMPLE CLASSICS

THE ROMANCE OF THE ROSE

Chapter 1

THE

ROMANCE OF THE ROSE

I

The famed Romance that hight the Rose, Behold! love’s art its leaves enclose.

Full many a man hath cried amain That dreams and visions are but vain Imaginings and lies, but I Believe that they may truthfully Forecast the future; and full clear And plain this matter doth appear By that famed dream of Scipio, Whereof Macrobius long ago The story wrote, and stoutly he Affirmeth dreams for verity. Moreover, if one think or say That fond and foolish ’tis to pay Respect to visions, seeing that ne’er They prove them true, that man may dare To call me fool, for I avow That I dim night-tide’s warnings trow Sincerely, and believe that they, Of good and ill, to men betray The shadow, showing darkly all That shall in day’s clear light befall.

’Twas in my twentieth year of age, When Love doth all young hearts engage To pay him toll, that on my bed I lay one night, as custom led. Asleep, when o’er my spirit fell A wondrous pleasant dream that well Delighted me, and nought therein I saw but what did later win Fulfilment, and I now in rhyme Set forth the tale, to while your time And glad young hearts, by Love’s command. And should or swain or maid demand How that is called which now I write, I answer “The Romance” it hight, For lovers written, “of the Rose,” Which doth Love’s gentle art enclose. Good is the matter, fair and true, God grant that grace it find in view Of her for whose behoof ’twas writ; Worthy of love is she, and fit, Before all other maids I swear. The fragrant name of Rose to bear.

Five years have rolled their suns away. Since in the amorous month of May I dreamed this dream: O month of joy That knows all nature to decoy To mirth and pleasure; bush and brake Alike their fresh spring raiment take Of leaves that long in swaddlings lay Close shrouded from the light of day. While woods and thickets don their green Rich mantling of resplendent sheen.

Then earth, though old, once more grows vain. And, cheered by balmy dews and rain, Forgets her poverished drear estate ’Neath winter stern and obdurate; For pride awaketh new desire To dizen her in bright attire, And thereto doth she fashion quaint And fair habiliments, and paint Them o’er with tints of varying hue, Green herb, and flowers, white, red, and blue; And tricked in such gay robes I ween Old Earth loves dearly to be seen. The merry birds that silence kept While all the world ’neath winter slept, And wild winds roared, and skies were grey With rain, break forth, when cometh May, In lusty note, and let sweet song Proclaim their joy that winter’s wrong Is past, and now once more doth reign Sweet spring-tide o’er old earth’s domain. Then nightingales with new-born voice Through day and night make dulcet noise. While larks on high, and in the brake The woodwales, heavenly music wake; And hearkening such sweet clamour, soon Young hearts respond the amorous tune In this sweet season of fair spring. O dull the soul that carolling Of birds delighteth not when they The echoes wake in joyous May. ’Twas in this season of delight. When all things love as if of right,

That, lying on my bed, I dreamed Dull night was passed and dawning beamed, And, leaping from the couch, my face I washed in haste, the night to chase, Put on my shoes, then straightway took A silver bodkin from a book Or bodkin-case, and with a thread Engarnished it, then forthwith sped From out the town, with will to hear The woodland fowl with piping clear Give welcome to the season new. And as I went the cords I drew Basting my sleeves, all joyous I To hear the birds sing merrily Among the spring-tide’s burgeoning trees. Moved gently by the fragrant breeze. So to a river came I near Whose pleasant murmur struck mine ear, And soothing, past all words, did seem The rippling music of the stream. From out a moss-grown rocky bank In bubbling waves, that rose and sank With changing force, the water cool Fell clear and bright, until a pool It formed, meandering o’er the plain In volume less than rolls the Seine, But broader spreading as I ween. Never the eye of man hath seen A fairer sight than that which I Now gazed upon so rapturously. Awhile I stood, then in the wave, Glistening and fresh, I stooped to lave

My face, and saw the river-bed With smooth bright gravel stones bespread, And all around, the meadows wide Were freshened by the lapping tide. Calm and serene, and bright and sweet, Was that spring morning, as my feet Along the river bank I bent. Light-hearted, heedless where I went. And hearkening, as it rolled along. The stream’s unending murmur-song.

Chapter 2

II

The Lover here essays to draw The wondrous counterfeits he saw Painted along the garden wall. Before our eyes doth he recall, Lifelike, the semblance, form and fame, Of each, and tells thereof the name, And first, with lively pen, portrays Of Hate the direful works and ways.

Short space my feet had traversed ere A garden spied I, great and fair, The which a castled wall hemmed round. And pictured thereupon I found Full many a figure rich and bright Of colour, and how each one hight Clear writ beneath it; now will I To you declare from memory The semblance and the name of each, And somewhat of their natures teach.

Hate.

Amidmost stood Hell’s daughter, Hate, Malignant, base, and desolate Of countenance; prime mover she Of quarrel, strife, and jealousy. Her very being, as meseemed. With black and treacherous poison teemed Of evil passion, while her dark And frowning visage bore the mark Of frenzied madness. Heavenward rose. As if in scorn, her camus nose, And round her head, as if with will To make her foulness fouler still, A filthy clout had she enwrapped.

Felony.

Left of her stood a figure, capped And branded with a legend writ Full large, which well her face did fit. It said: “Behold foul Felony.”

Villainy.

And on her right hand Villainy Stood pictured, and I soothly wot That ’twixt this evil pair is not Disparity of one poor hair. A creature looked she born to bear Within her bosom rancorous pride; Her mouth thin lipped, as formed to chide. A master ’twas whose pencil drew These portraitures, and throughly knew His hand this face and form to dight As one who little recked of right, A woman who would scorn to do Honour to those to whom ’twas due.

Covetousness.

Next her was painted Covetise, Who eggs men on, for their misease, To gather but to scatter not. And store, when nought they need, God wot! She ’tis the usurer doth cause To press, unstayed by pity’s laws. For gain relentlessly. ’Tis she Doth urge to deeds of felony Poor thieves, who, when they fall beneath The hand of Justice, find swift death. ’Tis she that causeth men to take Their neighbours’ goods, and doth awake Desire to rob, deceive, and steal; And ’tis through her that tricksters feel Impelled to fraud; ’tis she doth make False pleaders, who, for lucre’s sake. Full many an innocent youth or maid Strip bare, by their unholy trade. Of patrimony. Crooked and bent Her fingers grew, as they were meant By nature all to grip and seize That came anigh her. Covetise Careth for nought except to get Her neighbours’ goods within her net.

Avarice.

Another image close allied To Covetise stood side by side With her. ’Twas Avarice, and she Looked foul, and stooped most wretchedly. Her wasted figure, lean and weak. Was wan and pale as garden leek. The while her visage, void of blood. Bespoke her languorous wearihood. Her corpse-like body looked as fed On crusts of sour and mouldy bread Kneaded with leaven thin and eager; And with intent to hide her meagre Shrunken limbs she’d o’er them cast A tattered threadbare garment, past All hope of mendment, torn and slit, As though fierce dogs had worried it. In such poor wretched rags was she Arrayed, God wot! right beggarly. Hard by, upon a crazy pin, Was hung her cloak, outworn and thin: Wrought of good brunette cloth, once fair And soft, but now of ermine bare; And, in the place of costly fur. Poor Avarice contenteth her With heavy lambskin, shag and black; Full twenty years her skinny back Hath borne its cumbrous weight, for shy Is Avarice new clothes to buy. But findeth ever some excuse To spare her clouts due wear and use; And when outworn, her soul doth rue, Sorely, the cost to purchase new, But grievously the pinch of cold Will suffer ere she spends her gold. With greedy clutch doth Avarice hide Her purse, which ne’er she openeth wide. But keeps the strings drawn close and tight, Consumed with jealous fear lest light Her coin should see. Alas! but small Delight doth hence to her befall, For ne’er from out that purse would she Spend one poor penny willingly.

Envy

Beside her, sad-eyed Envy stood, Who smileth never. Nothing good To her doth seem, and nought can cheer Her soul to joy, or please her ear, Except it be some evil hap Befalls, the happiness to sap Of worthy men, that only she Heareth or looks on joyfully. But if perchance some lineage great Cast down should be from fair estate, Above all else such case I deem Would raise her soul to joy supreme. Should some good man perchance arise To honour great, within her dies Her heart; but marvellous delight Awakes therein when hate and spite Spur men to wrath. Such rancour grows Within her breast, that ne’er she shows

Love to a friend, nor hath one good Kind thought towards those who share her blood— Yea, sorely ’twould her heart distress Her sire to see in happiness. Right cruel is the price she pays, Who walketh thus in devious ways. And through her cursed spirit she Suffers forsooth most bitterly; For in her villain mind doth rage Torment more rude than thought can gauge Whene’er she hears of kindly deed Or worthy act; and sore doth bleed Her venomous heart enduring this. Which God’s most righteous vengeance is Upon her. Envy’s evil tongue Spares no man, be he old or young. And if ’twas hers to know perchance The noblest knight who honours France. Or one whose fame lies over-sea. She’d deal them slander equally. And should their names so fair be found As made her villain words redound To eke their praise, then would she try By mean insinuating lie To undermine their fame some deal With venomous wound no balm could heal. I noted how she seemed to glance Sideways, with tortuous peep askance. And furtive leer turned all awry. Half-closed her slanting evil eye. Her habit seemed, forsooth, innate That she towards no man cast a straight And honest gaze, but one eye closed She kept, as if forsooth she dozed; Then suddenly ’twas lit with ire If some fair thing she saw, and fire Would burn therein, for loves she not Aught good or beauteous, as I wot.

Sorrow.

Then standing Envy close beside. Was fretful Sorrow, heavy-eyed And dismal. By her deadly hue ’Twas clear her wretched spirit knew Unending grief, and thus jaundice Paled all her blood. E’en Avarice Than she doth look less poor and lean. For care and misery, well I ween, And cruel chagrin and distress. That day nor night know never cess. She suffers, and through sickly woe More lean and pale doth daily grow. None suffereth martyrdom more dire Than she, and this begetteth ire Within her heart, as seemed to me, And much I doubt if aught could be Or said or done whereby to ease Her rooted grief, or calm or please Her cankered soul, or break the round Of care wherein her life is bound! Alike her face and garments wore Marks of the cruel rage that tore Her woeful heart. Her nails had scratched Her cheeks, the while her hands had snatched Her rob to rags and plainly spake What cruel passion was awake Within her miserable breast, Outworn with rage, with grief opprest. Sad token both of spleen and hate, That left her thus disconsolate. Around her head hung ragged shocks Of hair in wild disordered locks, The which her angry hands had torn, The while she wept her state forlorn, Till every eye that saw her grew Bedewed with tears of pitying rue, For ceased she not to beat her breast As though with madness dire possessed. Her body and soul both seemed to be Encompassed round with misery; No pastime sought she, and the bliss Her mouth ne’er knew of amorous kiss. The wight whose being is in woe Immersed hath little will to go Where merry folk dance, laugh, and sing, But closely hugs her sorrowing; For Joy and Sorrow know not how To dwell in fellowship, I trow.

Eld.

To Sorrow next was pictured Eld: Time’s hand all care for food had quelled Within her, and a foot was she Less than in youth she woned to be, Bowed down by toil and drearihead. Her beauty, years long past, had fled.

And foul of face was she become. And though old Time had left her some Sparse, straggling locks, her head was white As though ’twere floured: the loss were light If that poor body, worn and waste. The doubtful woe of death should taste; For shrivelled were her limbs, and dry. Faded her once bright lustrous eye; Wrinkled the cheeks once soft and smooth; And those once pink-shell ears, forsooth, Now pendent hung; her pearl-like teeth, Alas! had long since left their sheath, And barely could she walk as much As fathoms four without her crutch. Time speedeth over night and day. No rest he taketh nor delay Of briefest movement makes, but steals So warily along, man feels His going nought, but fondly deems Time standeth still; but while he dreams. Half-waked, Time’s foot hath passed, I trow, For none can say that time is—now! Ask thou some learned clerk, while he Maketh response, the time shall be Gone and departed three times o’er, For Time aye passeth, but no more Returneth: e’en as water flows For ever onward, but ne’er goes Back to its source. No thing can ’dure Against the force of time, though sure As adamant or iron. Time Each thing devoureth when its prime

Is reached. ’Tis Time that maketh grow All new-born things, and Time doth show How all things change, and wear and waste; ’Tis he that hath our fathers chased From off the earth. Of mighty kings And emperors the dirge he sings, And all, through Time, must pass away, For he ’tis marks our dooming day. And Time, who ne’er forgetteth aught, Hath Eld forgotten not, but brought His hand to bear upon her so That feebler doth she surely grow From day to day, until no more She hath of strength, or notes of lore, Than child that on its mother’s knee Or laughs or smiles unconsciously. Yet natheless had Eld been in youth A damsel fair, and sweet forsooth To my sure knowledge, but I trow Is sadly metamorphosed now— Changed to a world-worn doting thing. A great fur cloak for wrappering She wore (methinks around her form I see it yet) to keep her warm, For aged folk still dread the cold. By nature’s law, through many a fold.

Hypocrisy.

The image standing next was fit To show right well a hypocrite.

Popeholy was the name she bore, And on her face a mask she wore Of righteousness, for her great care It is to take men unaware, And play them some base, shameful trick. On first acquaintance is she quick To waken pity by her sad And simple piteous look, beclad With simple, sweet, and saintly seeming; But in this world no evil deeming Exists, that rolls not through her brain. The painting gave to her amain. Kind, gentle semblance; debonair And simple all her features were. And both her pose and raiment done In guise of some good convent nun. A psalter held she in her hand. As though the throne of God she fanned With holy prayers, and saints invoked: But never laughed she, smiled nor joked. Good works pretendeth she to do. As though nought else did she pursue Since first she donned the shirt of hair. Her wretched body, lean and spare. All bloodless looked and deadly white, Through daily fest and sleepless night. For her, and those who share her lot, The gate of Paradise I wot Ne’er openeth, for the Gospel says: They fast and make long prayers for praise Of men, and thus they cast away God’s Kingdom at the dooming day.

Poverty.

Last Poverty, of whom I vouch, No penny lay within her pouch, And buy a rope to hang herself. Naked as any wretched worm, She oft, in direful winter’s term, Nigh dies with misery and cold. Nought else her body did enfold Except a sack, from whence hung torn Foul rags, for robe and mantle worn; Therewith alone did she dissemble Her nakedness, her limbs a-tremble, Down in a corner, on the ground Couched, like a beaten, shamefaced hound. Alas! a dolorous fate hath she, Cast out from all men’s company. Accursed the hour when man is born To live in poverty forlorn: Far better had he never been Than naked, houseless, friendless seen. Before these images I stayed Some space; each one was well arrayed In dazzling gold and azure bright. By skilful limner deftly dight. The wall was high, and built of hard Rough stone, close shut, and strongly barred, Enclosing round a garden vast. Wherein no swain had ever passed; Beyond all doubt a place most fair. And I most gladly entry there

Had made, and plenteous measure he Of thanks had won who showed to me How, helped by steps or ladder tall, My feet might scale the high-built wall. O joy of joys! O dear delight, If ’twere but given to me that height To climb, and such sweet joyance win As surely might be found therein. This garden was a safe retreat For hosts of nesting birds, and sweet Their piping sounded from the trees, The glory of the place; the breeze Was redolent of woodland song, Nor shall I be convict of wrong In saying that it shields perchance Three times as many birds as France Contains elsewhere. The harmony Thereof could scarcely fail to be Such as would cheer the saddest wight, And wake his soul to sweet delight. To me more boundless was the pleasure To hear those songs than words may mea­sure. And fain had I an hundred pounds Paid straight to win within the bounds, And see the gathered cloud of these Sweet birds (God save them!) in the trees, And list their tireless minstrelsy, Which e’en love’s dancing tunes outvie, All piping clear, from untaught throats. In ever varying wilding notes. While hearkening to the matin chant The small fowl sang, my soul a-pant

Became with longing for some mode To win within this blest abode, And searched, but vainly searched, alas! For means, or fair or foul, to pass The wall, but nought to help me found; And then I vainly gazed around For one who might, for love or meed. Within that longed-for haven lead My eager footsteps. Thus I stood, With dire vexation well-nigh wood, Until the thought possessed my mind, That never yet was wall so blind That careful diligence should fail To find some door, or means to scale. Hot-foot, the boundary’s full extent I traversed, heart and soul intent Some aperture to spy; at last Mine eye with eager joy I cast Upon a wicket, straight and small, Worked in the stern, forbidding wall, And forthwith set myself to get An entry there, whate’er might let.

Chapter 3

III

Here is described how Idleness Unto the Dreamer gave ingress.

Full many a time with sounding blow I struck the door, and, head bent low. Stood hearkening who might make reply. The horn-beam wicket presently Was opened by a dame of air Most gracious, and of beauty rare:

Her flesh as tender chicken’s was; Her blond locks bright as bowl of brass; Radiant her brow; of arching due Her eyebrows; and well spaced the two; Neither too small, nor yet too great Her nose, but straight and delicate. No falcon, I would boldly swear, Hath eyes that could with hers compare. Her breath was sweet as breeze, thyme fed; Her cheeks, commingled white and red; Her mouth a rosebud, and her chin Well rounded, with sweet cleft therein. Her tower-like neck, of measure meet. The purest lily well might beat For fairness, free of spot or wem. ’Twixt this and far Jerusalem I trow were found none other such, So fair to sight, so soft to touch. Her bosom would outshine the snow New-fallen, ere it soil doth show; And all her body formed and knit So well, as nought might equal it. Much doubt I, if since Time had birth, A fairer dame hath trod dull earth. A chaplet on her brow was set Of orfreys; never maiden yet More lovesome looked, and though my days I spent to sing her beauty’s praise, ’Twere done but insufficiently. A graceful silken robe wore she. And on her head a garland bare Of roses, which the orfreys fair

Sourmounted; in her gentle hand She grasped a mirror, and a grand Quaint carven comb her tresses held, While gloves of spotless white repelled The sun, which fain would kiss her skin. And lastly, she had ’tired her in A costly coat of cloth of Ghent, On which much labour had been spent In broidering, while her sleeves around With silken cords were laced and bound. And when that she her raiment fair Had donned, and ’tired her golden hair, The day for her was worn and done, Nought else had she to think upon. A joyful time, a pleasant May Was hers, for care she drove away And dreamed of nothing, night and morn, But how her body to adorn. When thus I saw the garden gate Unlocked by this most delicate And winsome dame, her goodlihead Abashed me, and I gently said My thanks, and dared to ask her name. And who she was, and whence she came. With pleasant mien, in nowise high Or haughty, made she quick reply: “My dear companions well express My name, who call me Idleness, A rich and puissant woman I, Passing the time right gleefully; Nought else have I to think upon Save what fair raiment I shall don, What rich and costly jewels wear, How deck my head, and ’tire my hair. When this is finished then my day Is ended, and to mirth and play

I give myself. My dearest friend Is Mirth, and by his side I spend Long pleasant hours. The Lord is he Of this fair garden; every tree From out the land of Saracens He brought, for well the art he kens To make his garden a delight, And as the trees grew strong he dight The wall around, and caused thereon Those dreadsome paintings to be done. Of Sorrow, Hatred, Eld, and Spleen, Which wending hither thou hast seen. He cometh here full oft to seek The pleasant leafy shade, and eke His followers join him in these bowers, ’Mid mirth and joy to spend long hours Untouched by care. E’en now I wot Mirth lounging in cool shade or grot Listeth the sweet-voiced nightingale. Merle, laverock, mavis, and wood-wale: Here with his friends, the long day through. Sweet solace finds he, for ne’er knew The world a place that would suffice Like this for loss of Paradise. No merrier folk were ever seen Through earth’s broad borders, as I ween, Than those whom Mirth doth hither bring To spend bright days in revelling.” When thus this winsome dame had sped Her tale, which I had hearkenèd With right good will: “Dame Idleness,” I cried, “words fail me to express What great delight were mine to see Sir Mirth and all his company Of joyous folk assembled here, So pleasant, blithe, and frank of cheer, Mor would I tear myself away Therefrom throughout the livelong day, For doubt I nought they all will be Fulfilled of gentle courtesy.”

No more I spake, but thanked kind fate, When Idleness the garden gate Threw open wide, and unafraid To that sweet spot quick entry made. Then burst on my astonished eyes A dream—an Earthly Faradise; And suddenly my soul seemed riven From earth, to dwell in highest heaven; Yet doubt I much if heaven can give A place where I so soon would live As this sweet garden, sacred haunt Of birds whose soft melodious chaunt Ravished mine ears; the nightingales Here sang, and there the green wood-wales; The bullfinch piped beneath, above, I heard the crooning turtle-dove, Near by, the sweet-voiced tiny wren, While high in air, beyond my ken. The skylark soared; the titmouse shrilled The fauvette’s gentle treble trilled.

The merle and mavis seemed to shake The leaves in cadence, while each brake With small fowl rang, as they would try Their throats in choral rivalry. ’Twould seem as all and each of these Sweet birds sang joyance to the breeze. And then, their hearts disburdened, flew To keep some loving rendezvous. The sweet melodious harmony That winged its way from tree to tree. With such soft symphony did fall As concert ’twere celestial. For never yet hath mortal ear Been tuned such heavenlike songs to hear. And past all thought it seemed that earth Could give such glorious music birth. Then all at once it broke on me I heard the syrens of the sea. For they alone I trow can bring To ears of men such carolling. I vow that when beneath the shade The birds such glorious music made. My spirit and soul were like to melt And fail with that delight I felt. For ne’er ere this, my whole life through. Did joy so unalloyed bedew My every sense, and ecstasy Ran through the very soul of me. Bethought I then what untold debt I owed Dame Idleness, who set My feet in this surpassing place, For ’twas alone through her good grace And kindliness I entrance gained To this fair haunt wherein Mirth reigned Supreme; my best and truest friend I’ll count her till my life-days end.

Now will I set myself to tell The further tale of what befell In that fair spot. What things Mirth did, And who the friends were that he bid To keep him company will I Declare all faithfully, and try To show and picture forth to you, What happed to me, in order due. Set out the whole in little space Could no man, but if kindly grace You grant me, then shall be unrolled The tale complete, till all be told. Within this garden, past compare. The birds sweet voicing filled the air With honeyed songs and roundelays. Discoursing in a thousand ways Their tales of tender woodland love. I listed how some sang above My head, perched high among the leaves. And others ’mid the fragrant sheaves Of blossom near the ground, and all, With melody most musical. Rejoiced my heart exceedingly: Then woke a new desire in me To look on Mirth’s fair countenance And grasp his hand; the radiance That flooded all my soul, I felt Would be redoubled if he dealt Me welcoming. I now forsook The open grassy space, and took A shaded pathway, where my feet Bruised mint and fennel savouring sweet; And following close my gracious guide, Found me ere long within a wide Secluded lawn, a sweet resort Where Mirth held joyously high court In care-spurned ease for full enjoyment Of life’s glad gifts, undashed by cloyment Or surfeit or revolt. Amazed I stood awhile, mine eyesight dazed. For erst or since, ne’er men I ween So like winged angels, eyes have seen.

Chapter 4

IV

Herein the Lover tells of Gladness: A dame is she who, casting sadness To the wild winds, doth nought but play And carol through the livelong day.

E’en as I came within the close, A glorious burst of song uprose; For one, whose name was Gladness, loud And clear-voiced sang amid the crowd Foregathered there; full well she knew To modulate her tones with due And gentle cadence, now to fall And now to rise high over all. Her note was clear as silver bell. And, gently swaying, rose and fell Her supple form, the while her feet Kept measured time with perfect beat:

’Mid her companions ever first Her voice was into song to burst, For in that art divine did she Exceed all rivals facilely. Then through my frame I felt a throe Of joy to see them dancing go, As man and maid in measure trod With twinkling feet the springing sod. While minstrels sang, the tambourine Kept with the flute due time I ween. And rondelettes burst forth amain To merry tunes of old Lorraine So sweetly, that I doubt if e’er Was heard such music otherwhere, For that fair province doth excel In heaven-born music’s tuneful spell. Then saw I cunning jugglers play. And girls cast tambourines away Aloft in air, then gaily trip Beneath them, and on finger-tip Catch them again, with skill so rare, That all men stood a-wondering there. Then came two damsels ’tired with taste That Venus’ self had not disgraced. And suited well their dainty dresses The wondrous plaits that bound their tresses: Their kirtles thin but reached the knee. Through which their forms showed pleasantly. I saw the twain toward Mirth advance With agile leap and darting glance, Then both flew forward with a bound, Just missed a kiss, then flung them round As though they feared some wrong they’d done, Then lovingly embraced anon, And then once more did they retreat, A-playing with their winsome feet A thousand antic turns; so quaint And strange they were, that I should paint Their wonders feebly did I try To show the supple subtlety With which their lithe light bodies swayed; Such tumult in my breast it made As never dance and song I deem Had done before in sooth or dream.