Poems

Part 1

Transcribed from the September 1909 Burns and Oates edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

POEMS

BY FRANCIS THOMPSON

* * * * *

BURNS AND OATES 28 Orchard Street London W

CONTENTS.

PAGE Dedication vii LOVE IN DIAN’S LAP I. Before Her Portrait in Youth 3 II. To a Poet Breaking Silence 5 III. Manus Animam Pinxit 8 IV. A Carrier-Song 11 V. Scala Jacobi Portaque Eburnea 15 VI. Gilded Gold 16 VII. Her Portrait 18 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS To the Dead Cardinal of Westminster 29 A Fallen Yew 37 Dream-Tryst 41 A Corymbus for Autumn 42 The Hound of Heaven 48 A Judgment in Heaven 53 POEMS ON CHILDREN Daisy 65 The Making of Viola 68 To My Godchild 72 To Poppy 75 To Monica Thought Dying 79

DEDICATION. TO WILFRID AND ALICE MEYNELL.

IF the rose in meek duty May dedicate humbly To her grower the beauty Wherewith she is comely; If the mine to the miner The jewels that pined in it, Earth to diviner The springs he divined in it; To the grapes the wine-pitcher Their juice that was crushed in it, Viol to its witcher The music lay hushed in it; If the lips may pay Gladness In laughters she wakened, And the heart to its sadness Weeping unslakened, If the hid and sealed coffer, Whose having not his is, To the loosers may proffer Their finding—here this is; Their lives if all livers To the Life of all living,— To you, O dear givers! I give your own giving.

Love in Dian’s Lap.

I. BEFORE HER PORTRAIT IN YOUTH.

AS lovers, banished from their lady’s face And hopeless of her grace, Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place, Fondly adore Some stealth-won cast attire she wore, A kerchief or a glove: And at the lover’s beck Into the glove there fleets the hand, Or at impetuous command Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck: So I, in very lowlihead of love,— Too shyly reverencing To let one thought’s light footfall smooth Tread near the living, consecrated thing,— Treasure me thy cast youth. This outworn vesture, tenantless of thee, Hath yet my knee, For that, with show and semblance fair Of the past Her Who once the beautiful, discarded raiment bare, It cheateth me. As gale to gale drifts breath Of blossoms’ death, So dropping down the years from hour to hour This dead youth’s scent is wafted me to-day: I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower. So, then, she looked (I say); And so her front sunk down Heavy beneath the poet’s iron crown: On her mouth museful sweet— (Even as the twin lips meet) Did thought and sadness greet: Sighs In those mournful eyes So put on visibilities; As viewless ether turns, in deep on deep, to dyes. Thus, long ago, She kept her meditative paces slow Through maiden meads, with wavèd shadow and gleam Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream, Till love up-caught her to his chariot’s glow. Yet, voluntary, happier Proserpine! This drooping flower of youth thou lettest fall I, faring in the cockshut-light, astray, Find on my ’lated way, And stoop, and gather for memorial, And lay it on my bosom, and make it mine. To this, the all of love the stars allow me, I dedicate and vow me. I reach back through the days A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not raise. The water-wraith that cries From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes Entwines and draws me down their soundless intricacies!

II. TO A POET BREAKING SILENCE.

TOO wearily had we and song Been left to look and left to long, Yea, song and we to long and look, Since thine acquainted feet forsook The mountain where the Muses hymn For Sinai and the Seraphim. Now in both the mountains’ shine Dress thy countenance, twice divine! From Moses and the Muses draw The Tables of thy double Law! His rod-born fount and Castaly Let the one rock bring forth for thee, Renewing so from either spring The songs which both thy countries sing: Or we shall fear lest, heavened thus long, Thou should’st forget thy native song, And mar thy mortal melodies With broken stammer of the skies.

Ah! let the sweet birds of the Lord With earth’s waters make accord; Teach how the crucifix may be Carven from the laurel-tree, Fruit of the Hesperides Burnish take on Eden-trees, The Muses’ sacred grove be wet With the red dew of Olivet, And Sappho lay her burning brows In white Cecilia’s lap of snows!

Thy childhood must have felt the stings Of too divine o’ershadowings; Its odorous heart have been a blossom That in darkness did unbosom, Those fire-flies of God to invite, Burning spirits, which by night Bear upon their laden wing To such hearts impregnating. For flowers that night-wings fertilize Mock down the stars’ unsteady eyes, And with a happy, sleepless glance Gaze the moon out of countenance. I think thy girlhood’s watchers must Have took thy folded songs on trust, And felt them, as one feels the stir Of still lightnings in the hair, When conscious hush expects the cloud To speak the golden secret loud Which tacit air is privy to; Flasked in the grape the wine they knew, Ere thy poet-mouth was able For its first young starry babble. Keep’st thou not yet that subtle grace? Yea, in this silent interspace, God sets His poems in thy face!

The loom which mortal verse affords, Out of weak and mortal words, Wovest thou thy singing-weed in, To a rune of thy far Eden. Vain are all disguises! Ah, Heavenly incognita! Thy mien bewrayeth through that wrong The great Uranian House of Song! As the vintages of earth Taste of the sun that riped their birth, We know what never cadent Sun Thy lampèd clusters throbbed upon, What plumed feet the winepress trod; Thy wine is flavorous of God. Whatever singing-robe thou wear Has the Paradisal air; And some gold feather it has kept Shows what Floor it lately swept!

III. “MANUS ANIMAM PINXIT.”

LADY who hold’st on me dominion! Within your spirit’s arms I stay me fast Against the fell Immitigate ravening of the gates of hell; And claim my right in you, most hardly won, Of chaste fidelity upon the chaste: Hold me and hold by me, lest both should fall (O in high escalade high companion!) Even in the breach of Heaven’s assaulted wall. Like to a wind-sown sapling grow I from The clift, Sweet, of your skyward-jetting soul,— Shook by all gusts that sweep it, overcome By all its clouds incumbent: O be true To your soul, dearest, as my life to you! For if that soil grow sterile, then the whole Of me must shrivel, from the topmost shoot Of climbing poesy, and my life, killed through, Dry down and perish to the foodless root.

Sweet Summer! unto you this swallow drew, By secret instincts inappeasable, That did direct him well, Lured from his gelid North which wrought him wrong, Wintered of sunning song;— By happy instincts inappeasable, Ah yes! that led him well, Lured to the untried regions and the new Climes of auspicious you; To twitter there, and in his singing dwell. But ah! if you, my Summer, should grow waste, With grieving skies o’ercast, For such migration my poor wing was strong But once; it has no power to fare again Forth o’er the heads of men, Nor other Summers for its Sanctuary: But from your mind’s chilled sky It needs must drop, and lie with stiffened wings Among your soul’s forlornest things; A speck upon your memory, alack! A dead fly in a dusty window-crack.

O therefore you who are What words, being to such mysteries As raiment to the body is, Should rather hide than tell; Chaste and intelligential love: Whose form is as a grove Hushed with the cooing of an unseen dove; Whose spirit to my touch thrills purer far Than is the tingling of a silver bell; Whose body other ladies well might bear As soul,—yea, which it profanation were For all but you to take as fleshly woof, Being spirit truest proof; Whose spirit sure is lineal to that Which sang Magnificat: Chastest, since such you are, Take this curbed spirit of mine, Which your own eyes invest with light divine, For lofty love and high auxiliar In daily exalt emprise Which outsoars mortal eyes; This soul which on your soul is laid, As maid’s breast against breast of maid; Beholding how your own I have engraved On it, and with what purging thoughts have laved This love of mine from all mortality Indeed the copy is a painful one, And with long labour done! O if you doubt the thing you are, lady, Come then, and look in me; Your beauty, Dian, dress and contemplate Within a pool to Dian consecrate! Unveil this spirit, lady, when you will, For unto all but you ’tis veilèd still: Unveil, and fearless gaze there, you alone, And if you love the image—’tis your own!

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