Poems

Poems

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, p. viiiTo the loosers may proffer Their findinghere this is; Their lives if all livers To the Life of all living, To you, O dear givers! I give your own giving. As lovers, banished from their ladys 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 lovers 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 thoughts 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, p. 4So dropping down the years from hour to hour This dead youths 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 poets 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 wavd shadow and gleam Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream, Till love up-caught her to his chariots 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! ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 1469
Author: Thompson, Francis
Release Date: Sep 1, 1998
Format: eBook
Language: English