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Field-Flower

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,

To teach it gazing debonair

With memory of what, perdie,

by Francis Thompson

Grace Of The Way

'My brother!' spake she to the sun;

The kindred kisses of the stars

Were hers; her feet were set upon

The moon. If slumber solved the bars

Of sense, or sense transpicuous grown

Fulfill-ed seeing unto sight,

I know not; nor if 'twas my own

Ingathered self that made her night.

by Francis Thompson

The Kingdom of God

'_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 stars in motion

by Francis Thompson

The Heart: Two Sonnets

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;

That has she given him as his wide demesne,

And for his sceptre ample empery;

Against its door to knock has Beauty been

by Francis Thompson

The Way Of A Maid

The lover whose soul shaken is

In some decuman billow of bliss,

Who feels his gradual-wading feet

Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet,

And 'mid love's us-ed converse comes

Sharp on a mood which all joy sums--

An instant's fine compendium of

The liberal-leav-ed writ of love;

by Francis Thompson

The Mistress Of Vision

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.

by Francis Thompson

Ode To The Setting Sun - Prelude

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 sadness. The red sun,

A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill,

While one bird prattles that the day is done.

by Francis Thompson

Beneath A Photoraph

Phoebus, who taught me art divine,

Here tried his hand where I did mine;

And his white fingers in this face

Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace.

O sweetness past profaning guess,

Grievous with its own exquisiteness!

Vesper-like face, its shadows bright

With meanings of sequestered light;

by Francis Thompson

A Judgment In Heaven

Athwart the sod which is treading for God * the poet paced with his

splendid eyes;

Paradise-verdure he stately passes * to win to the Father of

Paradise,

Through the conscious and palpitant grasses * of inter-tangled

relucent dyes.

The angels a-play on its fields of Summer * (their wild wings

rustled his guides' cymars)

by Francis Thompson

'By Reason Of Thy Law'

Here I make oath--

Although the heart that knows its bitterness

Hear loath,

And credit less--

That he who kens to meet Pain's kisses fierce

Which hiss against his tears,

Dread, loss, nor love frustrate,

Nor all iniquity of the froward years

by Francis Thompson

A Captain Of Song

(On a portrait of Coventry Patmore by J. S. Sargent, R.A.)

Look on him. This is he whose works ye know;

Ye have adored, thanked, loved him,--no, not him!

But that of him which proud portentous woe

To its own grim

Presentment was not potent to subdue,

Nor all the reek of Erebus to dim.

This, and not him, ye knew.

by Francis Thompson

After-Strain

Now with wan ray that other sun of Song

Sets in the bleakening waters of my soul:

One step, and lo! the Cross stands gaunt and long

'Twixt me and yet bright skies, a presaged dole.

Even so, O Cross! thine is the victory.

Thy roots are fast within our fairest fields;

Brightness may emanate in Heaven from thee,

Here thy dread symbol only shadow yields.

by Francis Thompson