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The Mistress Of Vision

I    Secret was the garden;    Set i' the pathless awe    Where no star its breath can draw.    Life, that is its warden,

Sits behind the fosse of death.  Mine eyes saw not,      and I saw.          II    It was a mazeful wonder;    Thrice three times it was enwalled    With an emerald--    Seal-ed so asunder.

All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their      music thralled.

II    The Lady of fair weeping,    At the garden's core,    Sang a song of sweet and sore    And the after-sleeping;

In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.          IV    With sweet-panged singing,    Sang she through a dream-night's day;    That the bowers might stay,    Birds bate their winging,

Nor the wall of emerald float in wreath-ed haze away.          V    The lily kept its gleaming,    In her tears (divine conservers!)    Wash-ed with sad art;    And the flowers of dreaming    Pal-ed not their fervours,    For her blood flowed through their nervures;

And the roses were most red, for she dipt them in      her heart.          VI    There was never moon,    Save the white sufficing woman:    Light most heavenly-human--    Like the unseen form of sound,    Sensed invisibly in tune,--    With a sun-deriv-ed stole    Did inaureole    All her lovely body round;

Lovelily her lucid body with that light was inter-      strewn.

II    The sun which lit that garden wholly,    Low and vibrant visible,    Tempered glory woke;    And it seem-ed solely    Like a silver thurible    Solemnly swung, slowly,

Fuming clouds of golden fire, for a cloud of incense-      smoke.

II    But woe's me, and woe's me,    For the secrets of her eyes!    In my visions fearfully    They are ever shown to be    As fring-ed pools, whereof each lies    Pallid-dark beneath the skies    Of a night that is    But one blear necropolis.

And her eyes a little tremble, in the wind of her      own sighs.          IX    Many changes rise on    Their phantasmal mysteries.    They grow to an horizon    Where earth and heaven meet;    And like a wing that dies on    The vague twilight-verges,    Many a sinking dream doth fleet    Lessening down their secrecies.    And, as dusk with day converges,    Their orbs are

Over-gloomed and over-glowed with hope and fear      of things to be.          X    There is a peak on Himalay,    And on the peak undeluged snow,    And on the snow not eagles stray;    There if your strong feet could go,--    Looking over tow'rd Cathay    From the never-deluged snow--    Farthest ken might not

Where the peoples underground dwell whom      antique fables know.          XI    East, ah, east of Himalay,    Dwell the nations underground;    Hiding from the shock of Day,    For the sun's uprising-sound:    Dare not issue from the ground    At the tumults of the Day,    So fearfully the sun doth sound    Clanging up beyond Cathay;

For the great earthquaking sunrise rolling up      beyond Cathay.

II    Lend me,

O lend me    The terrors of that sound,    That its music may attend me.    Wrap my chant in thunders round;

While I tell the ancient secrets in that Lady's      singing found.

II    On Ararat there grew a vine,    When Asia from her bathing rose;    Our first sailor made a twine    Thereof for his prefiguring brows.    Canst

Where, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster      grows?

IV    On Golgotha there grew a thorn    Round the long-prefigured Brows.    Mourn,

O mourn!

For the vine have we the spine?  Is this all the      Heaven allows?          XV    On Calvary was shook a spear;    Press the point into thy heart--    Joy and fear!

All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils      start.

VI    O, dismay!    I, a wingless mortal, sporting    With the tresses of the sun?    I, that dare my hand to lay    On the thunder in its snorting?    Ere begun,

Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old      Icarian way.

II    From the fall precipitant    These dim snatches of her chant    Only have remain-ed mine;--    That from spear and thorn alone    May be

For the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine.

II    Her song said that no springing    Paradise but evermore    Hangeth on a singing    That has chords of weeping,    And that sings the after-sleeping    To souls which wake too sore.'But woe the singer, woe!' she said; 'beyond the      dead his singing-lore,    All its art of sweet and sore,    He learns, in Elenore!'

IX    Where is the land of Luthany,    Where is the tract of Elenore?    I am bound therefor.          XX    'Pierce thy heart to find the key;    With thee take    Only what none else would keep;    Learn to dream when thou dost wake,    Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.    Learn to water joy with tears,    Learn from fears to vanquish fears;    To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,    Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;    Plough thou the rock until it bear;    Know, for thou else couldst not believe;    Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;    Die, for none other way canst live.    When earth and heaven lay down their veil,    And that apocalypse turns thee pale;    When thy seeing blindeth thee    To what thy fellow-mortals see;    When their sight to thee is sightless;    Their living, death; their light, most light-      less;    Search no more--Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.'

XI    Where is the land of Luthany,    And where the region Elenore?    I do faint therefor.    'When to the new eyes of thee    All things by immortal power,    Near or far,    Hiddenly    To each other link-ed are,    That thou canst not stir a flower    Without troubling of a star;    When thy song is shield and mirror    To the fair snake-curl-ed Pain,    Where thou dar'st affront her terror    That on her thou may'st attain    Persean conquest; seek no more,    O seek no more!

Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.'

II    So sang she, so wept she,    Through a dream-night's day;    And with her magic singing kept she--    Mystical in music--    That garden of enchanting    In visionary May;    Swayless for my spirit's haunting,

Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mor-      tal mornings grey.

II    And as a necromancer    Raises from the rose-ash    The ghost of the rose;    My heart so made answer    To her voice's silver plash,--    Stirred in reddening flash,

And from out its mortal ruins the purpureal phantom      blows.

IV    Her tears made dulcet fretting,    Her voice had no word,    More than thunder or the bird.    Yet, unforgetting,

The ravished soul her meanings knew.  Mine ears      heard not, and I heard.

XV    When she shall unwind    All those wiles she wound about me,    Tears shall break from out me,    That I cannot

Music in the holy poets to my wistful want,

I doubt      me!

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Francis Thompson

Francis Thompson (16 December 1859 – 13 November 1907) was an English poet and Catholic mystic. At the behest of his father, a doctor, he entere…

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