The blessed damozel lean'd out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters still'd at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseem'd she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. …Yet now, and in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me—her hair Fell all about my face…. Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on: By God built over the sheer depth The wh...