Francis Thompson

Too wearily had we and
Been left to look and left to long,
Yea, song and we to long and look,
Since thine acquainted feet

In no Strange Land_' O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee
Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air-- That we ask of...

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

What is the song the stars sing
(And a million songs are as song of one) This is the song the stars sing: (Sweeter song's none) One to set, and many to sing, (And a million songs are as song of one) One to stand, and many to cling, The many t...

A Phantasy
God took a fit of Paradise-wind,  A slip of coerule weather,
A thought as simple as Himself,  And ravelled them together
Unto His eyes He held it there,

The heart you hold too small and local thing,
Such spacious terms of edifice to bear
And yet, since Poesy first shook out her wing,
The mighty Love has been impalaced there;

The hunchèd camels of the
Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon
The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering

Here I make oath--Although the heart that knows its
Hear loath,
And credit less--That he who kens to meet Pain's kisses
Which hiss against his tears,

The wailful sweetness of the violin Floats down the hush-ed waters of the wind,
The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin To long in aching music
Spirit-pined,
In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until The wounded soul ooze...

I fear to love thee,
Sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss;
White flake of childhood, clinging so To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow At tenderest touch will shrink and go
Love me not, delightful child

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

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...