Francis Thompson

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O breath of the distant surf
— The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand ...

This morning saw I, fled the shower,
The earth reclining in a lull of power:
The heavens, pursuing not their path,
Lay stretched out naked after bath,

She was aweary of the
Of Love's incessant tumultuous wing;
Her lover's tokens she would answer not--'Twere well she should be strange with him somewhat:
A pretty babe, this Love,--but fie on it,

Mortals, that behold a Woman,  Rising 'twixt the Moon and Sun;
Who am I the heavens assume
an  All am I, and I am one
Multitudinous ascend I,  Dreadful as a battle arrayed,

Phoebus, who taught me art divine,
Here tried his hand where I did mine;
And his white fingers in this
Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace

The after-even
Ah, did I walk,  Indeed, in her or even
For nothing of me or around  But absent She did leaven,
Felt in my body as its soul,  And in my soul its heaven

I do not need the skies' Pomp, when I would be wise; For pleasaunce nor to use Heaven's champaign when I muse
One grass-blade in its veins Wisdom's whole flood contains; Thereon my foundering mind Odyssean fate can find
O little blade, n...