Behold whiles she before the altar stands <br />Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes <br />And blesseth her with his two happy hands, <br />How the red roses flush vp in her cheekes, <br />And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne, <br />Like crimsin dyde in grayne, <br />That euen th'Angels which continually, <br />About the sacred Altare doe remaine, <br />Forget their seruice and about her fly, <br />Ofte peeping in her face that seemes more fayre, <br />The more they on it stare. <br />But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground, <br />Are gouerned with goodly modesty, <br />That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, <br />Which may let in a little thought vnsownd, <br />Why blush ye loue to giue to me your hand, <br />The pledge of all our band, <br />Sing ye sweet Angels Alleluya sing, <br />That all the woods may answere and your eccho ring.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-13/
