New Poems by Francis Thompson

This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. New Poems, by Francis Thompson. Dedication to Coventry Patmore. Lo, my book thinks to look Time’s leaguer down, Under the banner of your spread renown! Or if these levies of impuissant rhyme Fall to the overthrow of assaulting Time, Yet this one page shall fend
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  • 1897
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This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.

New Poems, by Francis Thompson.

Dedication to Coventry Patmore.

Lo, my book thinks to look Time’s leaguer down, Under the banner of your spread renown!
Or if these levies of impuissant rhyme Fall to the overthrow of assaulting Time, Yet this one page shall fend oblivious shame, Armed with your crested and prevailing Name.

Note.–This dedication was written while the dear friend and great Poet to whom it was addressed yet lived. It is left as he saw it– the last verses of mine that were ever to pass under his eyes.

F. T.



The mistress of vision.
‘By reason of Thy law.’
The dread of height.
Orient ode.
New Year’s chimes.
From the night of forebeing.
Any saint.
Assumpta Maria.
The after woman.
Grace of the way.


A girl’s sin–in her eyes.
A girl’s sin–in his eyes.
Love declared.
The way of a maid.
Beginning of the end.
The end of it.


Ode to the setting sun.
A captain of song.
Against Urania.
An anthem of earth.


‘Ex ore infantium.’
A question.
The cloud’s swan-song.
To the sinking sun.
Grief’s harmonics.
Memorat memoria.
July fugitive.
To a snow-flake.
A May burden.
A dead astronomer.
‘Chose vue.’
‘Whereto art thou come.’
Heaven and hell.
To a child.
House of bondage.
The heart.
A sunset.
Heard on the mountain.


Love’s almsman plaineth his fare.
A holocaust.
Beneath a photograph.
After her going.
My lady the tyranness.
Unto this last.


‘Wisdom is easily seen by them that love her, and is found by them that seek her.
To think therefore upon her is perfect understanding.’




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.


It was a mazeful wonder;
Thrice three times it was enwalled With an emerald–
Seal-ed so asunder.
All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.


The Lady of fair weeping,
At the garden’s core,
Sang a song of sweet and sore
And the after-sleeping;
In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.


With sweet-panged singing,
Sang she through a dream-night’s day; That the bowers might stay,
Birds bate their winging,
Nor the wall of emerald float in wreath-ed haze away.


The lily kept its gleaming,
In her tears (divine conservers!) Wash-ed with sad art;
And the flowers of dreaming
Pal-ed not their fervours,
For her blood flowed through their nervures; And the roses were most red, for she dipt them in her heart.


There was never moon,
Save the white sufficing woman:
Light most heavenly-human–
Like the unseen form of sound,
Sensed invisibly in tune,–
With a sun-deriv-ed stole
Did inaureole
All her lovely body round;
Lovelily her lucid body with that light was inter- strewn.


The sun which lit that garden wholly, Low and vibrant visible,
Tempered glory woke;
And it seem-ed solely
Like a silver thurible
Solemnly swung, slowly,
Fuming clouds of golden fire, for a cloud of incense- smoke.


But woe’s me, and woe’s me,
For the secrets of her eyes!
In my visions fearfully
They are ever shown to be
As fring-ed pools, whereof each lies Pallid-dark beneath the skies
Of a night that is
But one blear necropolis.
And her eyes a little tremble, in the wind of her own sighs.


Many changes rise on
Their phantasmal mysteries.
They grow to an horizon
Where earth and heaven meet;
And like a wing that dies on
The vague twilight-verges,
Many a sinking dream doth fleet
Lessening down their secrecies.
And, as dusk with day converges, Their orbs are troublously
Over-gloomed and over-glowed with hope and fear of things to be.


There is a peak on Himalay,
And on the peak undeluged snow,
And on the snow not eagles stray; There if your strong feet could go,– Looking over tow’rd Cathay
From the never-deluged snow–
Farthest ken might not survey
Where the peoples underground dwell whom antique fables know.


East, ah, east of Himalay,
Dwell the nations underground;
Hiding from the shock of Day,
For the sun’s uprising-sound:
Dare not issue from the ground
At the tumults of the Day,
So fearfully the sun doth sound
Clanging up beyond Cathay;
For the great earthquaking sunrise rolling up beyond Cathay.


Lend me, O lend me
The terrors of that sound,
That its music may attend me.
Wrap my chant in thunders round; While I tell the ancient secrets in that Lady’s singing found.


On Ararat there grew a vine,
When Asia from her bathing rose; Our first sailor made a twine
Thereof for his prefiguring brows. Canst divine
Where, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster grows?


On Golgotha there grew a thorn
Round the long-prefigured Brows. Mourn, O mourn!
For the vine have we the spine? Is this all the Heaven allows?


On Calvary was shook a spear;
Press the point into thy heart– Joy and fear!
All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils start.


O, dismay!
I, a wingless mortal, sporting
With the tresses of the sun?
I, that dare my hand to lay
On the thunder in its snorting?
Ere begun,
Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old Icarian way.


From the fall precipitant
These dim snatches of her chant
Only have remain-ed mine;–
That from spear and thorn alone
May be grown
For the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine.


Her song said that no springing
Paradise but evermore
Hangeth on a singing
That has chords of weeping,
And that sings the after-sleeping To souls which wake too sore.
‘But woe the singer, woe!’ she said; ‘beyond the dead his singing-lore,
All its art of sweet and sore,
He learns, in Elenore!’


Where is the land of Luthany,
Where is the tract of Elenore?
I am bound therefor.


‘Pierce thy heart to find the key; With thee take
Only what none else would keep;
Learn to dream when thou dost wake, Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.
Learn to water joy with tears,
Learn from fears to vanquish fears; To hope, for thou dar’st not despair, Exult, for that thou dar’st not grieve; Plough thou the rock until it bear;
Know, for thou else couldst not believe; Lose, that the lost thou may’st receive; Die, for none other way canst live.
When earth and heaven lay down their veil, And that apocalypse turns thee pale;
When thy seeing blindeth thee
To what thy fellow-mortals see;
When their sight to thee is sightless; Their living, death; their light, most light- less;
Search no more–
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.’


Where is the land of Luthany,
And where the region Elenore?
I do faint therefor.
‘When to the new eyes of thee
All things by immortal power,
Near or far,
To each other link-ed are,
That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star;
When thy song is shield and mirror To the fair snake-curl-ed Pain,
Where thou dar’st affront her terror That on her thou may’st attain
Persean conquest; seek no more,
O seek no more!
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.’


So sang she, so wept she,
Through a dream-night’s day;
And with her magic singing kept she– Mystical in music–
That garden of enchanting
In visionary May;
Swayless for my spirit’s haunting, Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mor- tal mornings grey.


And as a necromancer
Raises from the rose-ash
The ghost of the rose;
My heart so made answer
To her voice’s silver plash,–
Stirred in reddening flash,
And from out its mortal ruins the purpureal phantom blows.


Her tears made dulcet fretting,
Her voice had no word,
More than thunder or the bird.
Yet, unforgetting,
The ravished soul her meanings knew. Mine ears heard not, and I heard.


When she shall unwind
All those wiles she wound about me, Tears shall break from out me,
That I cannot find
Music in the holy poets to my wistful want, I doubt me!


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, Or so it seemed; field, water, tree, were still, Nor was there any purpose on the calm-browed hill.

The hill, which sometimes visibly is
Wrought with unresting energies,
Looked idly; from the musing wood,
And every rock, a life renewed
Exhaled like an unconscious thought When poets, dreaming unperplexed,
Dream that they dream of nought.
Nature one hour appears a thing unsexed, Or to such serene balance brought
That her twin natures cease their sweet alarms, And sleep in one another’s arms.
The sun with resting pulses seems to brood, And slacken its command upon my unurged blood.

The river has not any care
Its passionless water to the sea to bear; The leaves have brown content;
The wall to me has freshness like a scent, And takes half animate the air,
Making one life with its green moss and stain; And life with all things seems too perfect blent For anything of life to be aware.
The very shades on hill, and tree, and plain, Where they have fallen doze, and where they doze remain.

No hill can idler be than I;
No stone its inter-particled vibration Investeth with a stiller lie;
No heaven with a more urgent rest betrays The eyes that on it gaze.
We are too near akin that thou shouldst cheat Me, Nature, with thy fair deceit.

In poets floating like a water-flower Upon the bosom of the glassy hour,
In skies that no man sees to move,
Lurk untumultuous vortices of power, For joy too native, and for agitation
Too instant, too entire for sense thereof, Motion like gnats when autumn suns are low, Perpetual as the prisoned feet of love
On the heart’s floors with pain-ed pace that go. From stones and poets you may know,
Nothing so active is, as that which least seems so.

For he, that conduit running wine of song, Then to himself does most belong,
When he his mortal house unbars
To the importunate and thronging feet That round our corporal walls unheeded beat; Till, all containing, he exalt
His stature to the stars, or stars
Narrow their heaven to his fleshly vault: When, like a city under ocean,
To human things he grows a desolation, And is made a habitation
For the fluctuous universe
To lave with unimpeded motion.
He scarcely frets the atmosphere
With breathing, and his body shares The immobility of rocks;
His heart’s a drop-well of tranquillity; His mind more still is than the limbs of fear, And yet its unperturbed velocity
The spirit of the simoom mocks.
He round the solemn centre of his soul Wheels like a dervish, while his being is Streamed with the set of the world’s harmonies, In the long draft of whatsoever sphere
He lists the sweet and clear
Clangour of his high orbit on to roll, So gracious is his heavenly grace;
And the bold stars does hear,
Every one in his airy soar,
For evermore
Shout to each other from the peaks of space, As thwart ravines of azure shouts the mountaineer.


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 Shall his inur-ed wing make idly bate,
Nor of the appointed quarry his staunch sight To lose observance quite;
Seal from half-sad and all-elate
Sagacious eyes
Ultimate Paradise;
Nor shake his certitude of haughty fate.

Pacing the burning shares of many dooms, I with stern tread do the clear-witting stars To judgment cite,
If I have borne aright
The proving of their pure-willed ordeal. From food of all delight
The heavenly Falconer my heart debars, And tames with fearful glooms
The haggard to His call;
Yet sometimes comes a hand, sometimes a voice withal, And she sits meek now, and expects the light.

In this Avernian sky,
This sultry and incumbent canopy
Of dull and doomed regret;
Where on the unseen verges yet, O yet, At intervals,
Trembles, and falls,
Faint lightning of remembered transient sweet– Ah, far too sweet
But to be sweet a little, a little sweet, and fleet; Leaving this pallid trace,
This loitering and most fitful light a space, Still some sad space,
For Grief to see her own poor face:-

Here where I keep my stand
With all o’er-anguished feet,
And no live comfort near on any hand; Lo, I proclaim the unavoided term,
When this morass of tears, then drained and firm, Shall be a land–
Unshaken I affirm–
Where seven-quired psalterings meet; And all the gods move with calm hand in hand, And eyes that know not trouble and the worm.


If ye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say: We see: your sin remaineth. JOHN ix. 41.

Not the Circean wine
Most perilous is for pain:
Grapes of the heavens’ star-loaden vine, Whereto the lofty-placed
Thoughts of fair souls attain,
Tempt with a more retributive delight, And do disrelish all life’s sober taste. ‘Tis to have drunk too well
The drink that is divine,
Maketh the kind earth waste,
And breath intolerable.

Ah me!
How shall my mouth content it with mortality? Lo, secret music, sweetest music,
From distances of distance drifting its lone flight, Down the arcane where Night would perish in night, Like a god’s loosened locks slips undulously: Music that is too grievous of the height For safe and low delight,
Too infinite,
For bounded hearts which yet would girth the sea!

So let it be,
Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small: So let it be,
O music, music, though you wake in me No joy, no joy at all;
Although you only wake
Uttermost sadness, measure of delight, Which else I could not credit to the height, Did I not know,
That ill is statured to its opposite; Did I not know,
And even of sadness so,
Of utter sadness make,
Of extreme sad a rod to mete
The incredible excess of unsensed sweet, And mystic wall of strange felicity.
So let it be,
Though sweet be great, and though my heart be small, And bitter meat
The food of gods for men to eat;
Yea, John ate daintier, and did tread Less ways of heat,
Than whom to their wind-carpeted
High banquet-hall,
And golden love-feasts, the fair stars entreat.

But ah withal,
Some hold, some stay,
O difficult Joy, I pray,
Some arms of thine,
Not only, only arms of mine!
Lest like a weary girl I fall
From clasping love so high,
And lacking thus thine arms, then may Most hapless I
Turn utterly to love of basest rate; For low they fall whose fall is from the sky. Yea, who me shall secure
But I of height grown desperate
Surcease my wing, and my lost fate
Be dashed from pure
To broken writhings in the shameful slime: Lower than man, for I dreamed higher,
Thrust down, by how much I aspire,
And damned with drink of immortality? For such things be,
Yea, and the lowest reach of reeky Hell Is but made possible
By forta’en breath of Heaven’s austerest clime.

These tidings from the vast to bring
Needeth not doctor nor divine,
Too well, too well
My flesh doth know the heart-perturbing thing; That dread theology alone
Is mine,
Most native and my own;
And ever with victorious toil
When I have made
Of the deific peaks dim escalade,
My soul with anguish and recoil
Doth like a city in an earthquake rock, As at my feet the abyss is cloven then,
With deeper menace than for other men, Of my potential cousinship with mire;
That all my conquered skies do grow a hollow mock, My fearful powers retire,
No longer strong,
Reversing the shook banners of their song.

Ah, for a heart less native to high Heaven, A hooded eye, for jesses and restraint,
Or for a will accipitrine to pursue! The veil of tutelar flesh to simple livers given, Or those brave-fledging fervours of the Saint, Whose heavenly falcon-craft doth never taint, Nor they in sickest time their ample virtue mew.


Lo, in the sanctuaried East,
Day, a dedicated priest
In all his robes pontifical exprest, Lifteth slowly, lifteth sweetly,
From out its Orient tabernacle drawn, Yon orb-ed sacrament confest
Which sprinkles benediction through the dawn; And when the grave procession’s ceased,
The earth with due illustrious rite Blessed,–ere the frail fingers featly
Of twilight, violet-cassocked acolyte, His sacerdotal stoles unvest–
Sets, for high close of the mysterious feast, The sun in august exposition meetly
Within the flaming monstrance of the West. O salutaris hostia,
Quae coeli pandis ostium!
Through breach-ed darkness’ rampart, a Divine assaulter, art thou come!
God whom none may live and mark!
Borne within thy radiant ark,
While the Earth, a joyous David,
Dances before thee from the dawn to dark. The moon, O leave, pale ruined Eve;
Behold her fair and greater daughter {1} Offers to thee her fruitful water,
Which at thy first white Ave shall conceive! Thy gazes do on simple her
Desirable allures confer;
What happy comelinesses rise
Beneath thy beautifying eyes!
Who was, indeed, at first a maid
Such as, with sighs, misgives she is not fair, And secret views herself afraid,
Till flatteries sweet provoke the charms they swear: Yea, thy gazes, blissful lover,
Make the beauties they discover!
What dainty guiles and treacheries caught From artful prompting of love’s artless thought Her lowly loveliness teach her to adorn, When thy plumes shiver against the conscious gates of morn!

And so the love which is thy dower,
Earth, though her first-frightened breast Against the exigent boon protest,
(For she, poor maid, of her own power Has nothing in herself, not even love,
But an unwitting void thereof),
Gives back to thee in sanctities of flower; And holy odours do her bosom invest,
That sweeter grows for being prest: Though dear recoil, the tremorous nurse of joy, From thine embrace still startles coy,
Till Phosphor lead, at thy returning hour, The laughing captive from the wishing West.

Nor the majestic heavens less
Thy formidable sweets approve,
Thy dreads and thy delights confess, That do draw, and that remove.
Thou as a lion roar’st, O Sun,
Upon thy satellites’ vex-ed heels;
Before thy terrible hunt thy planets run; Each in his frighted orbit wheels,
Each flies through inassuageable chase, Since the hunt o’ the world begun,
The puissant approaches of thy face, And yet thy radiant leash he feels.
Since the hunt o’ the world begun,
Lashed with terror, leashed with longing, The mighty course is ever run;
Pricked with terror, leashed with longing, Thy rein they love, and thy rebuke they shun. Since the hunt o’ the world began,
With love that trembleth, fear that loveth, Thou join’st the woman to the man;
And Life with Death
In obscure nuptials moveth,
Commingling alien, yet affin-ed breath.

Thou art the incarnated Light
Whose Sire is aboriginal, and beyond Death and resurgence of our day and night; From him is thy vicegerent wand
With double potence of the black and white. Giver of Love, and Beauty, and Desire,
The terror, and the loveliness, and purging, The deathfulness and lifefulness of fire! Samson’s riddling meanings merging
In thy twofold sceptre meet:
Out of thy minatory might,
Burning Lion, burning Lion,
Comes the honey of all sweet,
And out of thee, the eater, comes forth meat. And though, by thine alternate breath,
Every kiss thou dost inspire
Back from the windy vaultages of death; Yet thy clear warranty above
Augurs the wings of death too must
Occult reverberations stir of love
Crescent and life incredible;
That even the kisses of the just
Go down not unresurgent to the dust. Yea, not a kiss which I have given,
But shall tri-umph upon my lips in heaven, Or cling a shameful fungus there in hell. Know’st thou me not, O Sun? Yea, well
Thou know’st the ancient miracle,
The children know’st of Zeus and May; And still thou teachest them, O splendent Brother, To incarnate, the antique way,
The truth which is their heritage from their Sire In sweet disguise of flesh from their sweet Mother. My fingers thou hast taught to con
Thy flame-chorded psalterion,
Till I can translate into mortal wire– Till I can translate passing well–
The heavenly harping harmony,
Melodious, sealed, inaudible,
Which makes the dulcet psalter of the world’s desire. Thou whisperest in the Moon’s white ear, And she does whisper into mine,–
By night together, I and she–
With her virgin voice divine,
The things I cannot half so sweetly tell As she can sweetly speak, I sweetly hear.

By her, the Woman, does Earth live, O Lord, Yet she for Earth, and both in thee.
Light out of Light!
Resplendent and prevailing Word
Of the Unheard!
Not unto thee, great Image, not to thee Did the wise heathen bend an idle knee;
And in an age of faith grown frore
If I too shall adore,
Be it accounted unto me
A bright sciential idolatry!
God has given thee visible thunders To utter thine apocalypse of wonders;
And what want I of prophecy,
That at the sounding from thy station Of thy flagrant trumpet, see
The seals that melt, the open revelation? Or who a God-persuading angel needs,
That only heeds
The rhetoric of thy burning deeds?
Which but to sing, if it may be,
In worship-warranting moiety,
So I would win
In such a song as hath within
A smouldering core of mystery,
Brimm-ed with nimbler meanings up
Than hasty Gideons in their hands may sup;– Lo, my suit pleads
That thou, Isaian coal of fire,
Touch from yon altar my poor mouth’s desire, And the relucent song take for thy sacred meeds.

To thine own shape
Thou round’st the chrysolite of the grape, Bind’st thy gold lightnings in his veins; Thou storest the white garners of the rains. Destroyer and preserver, thou
Who medicinest sickness, and to health Art the unthank-ed marrow of its wealth; To those apparent sovereignties we bow
And bright appurtenances of thy brow! Thy proper blood dost thou not give,
That Earth, the gusty Maenad, drink and dance? Art thou not life of them that live?
Yea, in glad twinkling advent, thou dost dwell Within our body as a tabernacle!
Thou bittest with thine ordinance
The jaws of Time, and thou dost mete The unsustainable treading of his feet.
Thou to thy spousal universe
Art Husband, she thy Wife and Church; Who in most dusk and vidual curch,
Her Lord being hence,
Keeps her cold sorrows by thy hearse. The heavens renew their innocence
And morning state
But by thy sacrament communicate:
Their weeping night the symbol of our prayers, Our darkened search,
And sinful vigil desolate.
Yea, biune in imploring dumb,
Essential Heavens and corporal Earth await, The Spirit and the Bride say: Come!
Lo, of thy Magians I the least
Haste with my gold, my incenses and myrrhs, To thy desired epiphany, from the spiced Regions and odorous of Song’s traded East. Thou, for the life of all that live
The victim daily born and sacrificed; To whom the pinion of this longing verse Beats but with fire which first thyself did give, To thee, O Sun–or is’t perchance, to Christ?

Ay, if men say that on all high heaven’s face The saintly signs I trace
Which round my stol-ed altars hold their solemn place, Amen, amen! For oh, how could it be,–
When I with wing-ed feet had run
Through all the windy earth about,
Quested its secret of the sun,
And heard what thing the stars together shout,– I should not heed thereout
Consenting counsel won:-
‘By this, O Singer, know we if thou see. When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is here, When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is there, Believe them: yea, and this–then art thou seer, When all thy crying clear
Is but: Lo here! lo there!–ah me, lo everywhere!’

{1} The earth.


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 things, and the one Thing, The one that runs not, the many that run.

The ever new weaveth the ever old
(And a million songs are as song of one). Ever telling the never told;
The silver saith, and the said is gold, And done ever the never done.

The chase that’s chased is the Lord o’ the chase (And a million songs are as song of one), And the pursued cries on the race;
And the hounds in leash are the hounds that run.

Hidden stars by the shown stars’ sheen; (And a million suns are but as one);
Colours unseen by the colours seen, And sounds unheard heard sounds between, And a night is in the light of the sun.

An ambuscade of light in night,
(And a million secrets are but as one), And a night is dark in the sun’s light,
And a world in the world man looks upon.

Hidden stars by the shown stars’ wings, (And a million cycles are but as one),
And a world with unapparent strings Knits the simulant world of things;
Behold, and vision thereof is none.

The world above in the world below
(And a million worlds are but as one), And the One in all; as the sun’s strength so Strives in all strength, glows in all glow Of the earth that wits not, and man thereon.

Braced in its own fourfold embrace
(And a million strengths are as strength of one), And round it all God’s arms of grace,
The world, so as the Vision says,
Doth with great lightning-tramples run.

And thunder bruiteth into thunder,
(And a million sounds are as sound of one), From stellate peak to peak is tossed a voice of wonder, And the height stoops down to the depths thereunder, And sun leans forth to his brother-sun.

And the more ample years unfold
(With a million songs as song of one), A little new of the ever old,
A little told of the never told,
Added act of the never done.

Loud the descant, and low the theme,
(A million songs are as song of one); And the dream of the world is dream in dream, But the one Is is, or nought could seem; And the song runs round to the song begun.

This is the song the stars sing,
(Ton-ed all in time);
Tintinnabulous, tuned to ring
A multitudinous-single thing,
Rung all in rhyme.

An ode after Easter.

In the chaos of preordination, and night of our forebeings.–


Et lux in tenebris erat, et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.–


Cast wide the folding doorways of the East, For now is light increased!
And the wind-besomed chambers of the air, See they be garnished fair;
And look the ways exhale some precious odours, And set ye all about wild-breathing spice, Most fit for Paradise.
Now is no time for sober gravity,
Season enough has Nature to be wise; But now discinct, with raiment glittering free, Shake she the ringing rafters of the skies With festal footing and bold joyance sweet, And let the earth be drunken and carouse! For lo, into her house
Spring is come home with her world-wandering feet, And all things are made young with young desires; And all for her is light increased
In yellow stars and yellow daffodils, And East to West, and West to East,
Fling answering welcome-fires,
By dawn and day-fall, on the jocund hills. And ye, winged minstrels of her fair meinie, Being newly coated in glad livery,
Upon her steps attend,
And round her treading dance and without end Reel your shrill lutany.
What popular breath her coming does out-tell The garrulous leaves among!
What little noises stir and pass
From blade to blade along the voluble grass! O Nature, never-done
Ungaped-at Pentecostal miracle,
We hear thee, each man in his proper tongue! Break, elemental children, break ye loose From the strict frosty rule
Of grey-beard Winter’s school.
Vault, O young winds, vault in your tricksome courses Upon the snowy steeds that reinless use
In coerule pampas of the heaven to run; Foaled of the white sea-horses,
Washed in the lambent waters of the sun. Let even the slug-abed snail upon the thorn Put forth a conscious horn!
Mine elemental co-mates, joy each one; And ah, my foster-brethren, seem not sad– No, seem not sad,
That my strange heart and I should be so little glad. Suffer me at your leafy feast
To sit apart, a somewhat alien guest, And watch your mirth,
Unsharing in the liberal laugh of earth; Yet with a sympathy,
Begot of wholly sad and half-sweet memory– The little sweetness making grief complete; Faint wind of wings from hours that distant beat, When I, I too,
Was once, O wild companions, as are you, Ran with such wilful feet.
Wraith of a recent day and dead,
Risen wanly overhead,
Frail, strengthless as a noon-belated moon, Or as the glazing eyes of watery heaven, When the sick night sinks into deathly swoon.

A higher and a solemn voice
I heard through your gay-hearted noise; A solemn meaning and a stiller voice
Sounds to me from far days when I too shall rejoice, Nor more be with your jollity at strife. O prophecy
Of things that are, and are not, and shall be! The great-vanned Angel March
Hath trumpeted
His clangorous ‘Sleep no more’ to all the dead– Beat his strong vans o’er earth, and air, and sea. And they have heard;
Hark to the Jubilate of the bird
For them that found the dying way to life! And they have heard,
And quicken to the great precursive word; Green spray showers lightly down the cascade of the larch; The graves are riven,
And the Sun comes with power amid the clouds of heaven! Before his way
Went forth the trumpet of the March; Before his way, before his way
Dances the pennon of the May!
O earth, unchilded, widowed Earth, so long Lifting in patient pine and ivy-tree
Mournful belief and steadfast prophecy, Behold how all things are made true!
Behold your bridegroom cometh in to you, Exceeding glad and strong.
Raise up your eyes, O raise your eyes abroad! No more shall you sit sole and vidual,
Searching, in servile pall,
Upon the hieratic night the star-sealed sense of all: Rejoice, O barren, and look forth abroad! Your children gathered back to your embrace See with a mother’s face.
Look up, O mortals, and the portent heed; In very deed,
Washed with new fire to their irradiant birth, Reintegrated are the heavens and earth!
From sky to sod,
The world’s unfolded blossom smells of God.

O imagery
Of that which was the first, and is the last! For as the dark, profound nativity,
God saw the end should be,
When the world’s infant horoscope He cast. Unshackled from the bright Phoebean awe, In leaf, flower, mould, and tree,
Resolved into dividual liberty,
Most strengthless, unparticipant, inane, Or suffered the ill peace of lethargy,
Lo, the Earth eased of rule:
Unsummered, granted to her own worst smart The dear wish of the fool–
Disintegration, merely which man’s heart For freedom understands,
Amid the frog-like errors from the damp And quaking swamp
Of the low popular levels spawned in all the lands. But thou, O Earth, dost much disdain
The bondage of thy waste and futile reign, And sweetly to the great compulsion draw Of God’s alone true-manumitting law,
And Freedom, only which the wise intend, To work thine innate end.
Over thy vacant counterfeit of death Broods with soft urgent breath
Love, that is child of Beauty and of Awe: To intercleavage of sharp warring pain,
As of contending chaos come again,
Thou wak’st, O Earth,
And work’st from change to change and birth to birth Creation old as hope, and new as sight;
For meed of toil not vain,
Hearing once more the primal fiat toll:- ‘Let there be light!’
And there is light!
Light flagrant, manifest;
Light to the zenith, light from pole to pole; Light from the East that waxeth to the West, And with its puissant goings-forth
Encroaches on the South and on the North; And with its great approaches does prevail Upon the sullen fastness of the height,
And summoning its levied power
Crescent and confident through the crescent hour, Goes down with laughters on the subject vale. Light flagrant, manifest;
Light to the sentient closeness of the breast, Light to the secret chambers of the brain! And thou up-floatest, warm, and newly-bathed, Earth, through delicious air,
And with thine own apparent beauties swathed, Wringing the waters from thine arborous hair; That all men’s hearts, which do behold and see, Grow weak with their exceeding much desire, And turn to thee on fire,
Enamoured with their utter wish of thee, Anadyomene!
What vine-outquickening life all creatures sup, Feel, for the air within its sapphire cup How it does leap, and twinkle headily!
Feel, for Earth’s bosom pants, and heaves her scarfing sea; And round and round in bacchanal rout reel the swift spheres intemperably!

My little-worlded self! the shadows pass In this thy sister-world, as in a glass, Of all processions that revolve in thee: Not only of cyclic Man
Thou here discern’st the plan,
Not only of cyclic Man, but of the cyclic Me. Not solely of Mortality’s great years
The reflex just appears,
But thine own bosom’s year, still circling round In ample and in ampler gyre
Toward the far completion, wherewith crowned, Love unconsumed shall chant in his own furnace-fire. How many trampled and deciduous joys
Enrich thy soul for joys deciduous still, Before the distance shall fulfil
Cyclic unrest with solemn equipoise! Happiness is the shadow of things past,
Which fools still take for that which is to be! And not all foolishly:
For all the past, read true, is prophecy, And all the firsts are hauntings of some Last, And all the springs are flash-lights of one Spring. Then leaf, and flower, and falless fruit Shall hang together on the unyellowing bough; And silence shall be Music mute
For her surcharg-ed heart. Hush thou! These things are far too sure that thou should’st dream Thereof, lest they appear as things that seem.

Shade within shade! for deeper in the glass Now other imaged meanings pass;
And as the man, the poet there is read. Winter with me, alack!
Winter on every hand I find:
Soul, brain, and pulses dead;
The mind no further by the warm sense fed, The soul weak-stirring in the arid mind, More tearless-weak to flash itself abroad Than the earth’s life beneath the frost-scorched sod. My lips have drought, and crack,
By laving music long unvisited.
Beneath the austere and macerating rime Draws back constricted in its icy urns
The genial flame of Earth, and there With torment and with tension does prepare The lush disclosures of the vernal time. All joys draw inward to their icy urns,
Tormented by constraining rime,
And there
With undelight and throe prepare
The bounteous efflux of the vernal time. Nor less beneath compulsive Law
Rebuk-ed draw
The numb-ed musics back upon my heart; Whose yet-triumphant course I know
And prevalent pulses forth shall start, Like cataracts that with thunderous hoof charge the disbanding snow. All power is bound
In quickening refusal so;
And silence is the lair of sound;
In act its impulse to deliver,
With fluctuance and quiver
The endeavouring thew grows rigid;
From its retracted coil strikes the resilient song.

Giver of spring,
And song, and every young new thing! Thou only seest in me, so stripped and bare, The lyric secret waiting to be born,
The patient term allowed
Before it stretch and flutteringly unfold Its rumpled webs of amethyst-freaked, diaphanous gold. And what hard task abstracts me from delight, Filling with hopeless hope and dear despair The still-born day and parch-ed fields of night, That my old way of song, no longer fair, For lack of serene care,
Is grown a stony and a weed-choked plot, Thou only know’st aright,
Thou only know’st, for I know not.
How many songs must die that this may live! And shall this most rash hope and fugitive, Fulfilled with beauty and with might
In days whose feet are rumorous on the air, Make me forget to grieve
For songs which might have been, nor ever were? Stern the denial, the travail slow,
The struggling wall will scantly grow: And though with that dread rite of sacrifice Ordained for during edifice,
How long, how long ago!
Into that wall which will not thrive I build myself alive,
Ah, who shall tell me will the wall uprise? Thou wilt not tell me, who dost only know! Yet still in mind I keep,
He which observes the wind shall hardly sow, He which regards the clouds shall hardly reap. Thine ancient way! I give,
Nor wit if I receive;
Risk all, who all would gain: and blindly. Be it so.

‘And blindly,’ said I?–No!
That saying I unsay: the wings
Hear I not in praevenient winnowings Of coming songs, that lift my hair and stir it? What winds with music wet do the sweet storm foreshow! Utter stagnation
Is the solstitial slumber of the spirit, The blear and blank negation of all life: But these sharp questionings mean strife, and strife Is the negation of negation.
The thing from which I turn my troubled look Fearing the gods’ rebuke;
That perturbation putting glory on, As is the golden vortex in the West
Over the foundered sun;
That–but low breathe it, lest the Nemesis Unchild me, vaunting this–
Is bliss, the hid, hugged, swaddled bliss! O youngling Joy carest!
That on my now first-mothered breast Pliest the strange wonder of thine infant lip, What this aghast surprise of keenest panging, Wherefrom I blench, and cry thy soft mouth rest? Ah hold, withhold, and let the sweet mouth slip! So, with such pain, recoils the woolly dam, Unused, affrighted, from her yeanling lamb: I, one with her in cruel fellowship,
Marvel what unmaternal thing I am.

Nature, enough! within thy glass
Too many and too stern the shadows pass. In this delighted season, flaming
For thy resurrection-feast,
Ah, more I think the long ensepulture cold, Than stony winter rolled
From the unsealed mouth of the holy East; The snowdrop’s saintly stoles less heed
Than the snow-cloistered penance of the seed. ‘Tis the weak flesh reclaiming
Against the ordinance
Which yet for just the accepting spirit scans. Earth waits, and patient heaven,
Self-bonded God doth wait
Thrice-promulgated bans
Of his fair nuptial-date.
And power is man’s,
With that great word of ‘wait,’
To still the sea of tears,
And shake the iron heart of Fate.
In that one word is strong
An else, alas, much-mortal song;
With sight to pass the frontier of all spheres, And voice which does my sight such wrong.

Not without fortitude I wait
The dark majestical ensuit
Of destiny, nor peevish rate
Calm-knowledged Fate.
I, that no part have in the time’s bragged way, And its loud bruit
I, in this house so rifted, marred, So ill to live in, hard to leave;
I, so star-weary, over-warred,
That have no joy in this your day– Rather foul fume englutting, that of day Confounds all ray–
But only stand aside and grieve;
I yet have sight beyond the smoke,
And kiss the gods’ feet, though they wreak Upon me stroke and again stroke;
And this my seeing is not weak.
The Woman I behold, whose vision seek All eyes and know not; t’ward whom climb The steps o’ the world, and beats all wing of rhyme, And knows not; ‘twixt the sun and moon
Her inexpressible front enstarred
Tempers the wrangling spheres to tune; Their divergent harmonies
Concluded in the concord of her eyes, And vestal dances of her glad regard.
I see, which fretteth with surmise
Much heads grown unsagacious-grey,
The slow aim of wise-hearted Time,
Which folded cycles within cycles cloak: We pass, we pass, we pass; this does not pass away, But holds the furrowing earth still harnessed to its yoke. The stars still write their golden purposes On heaven’s high palimpsest, and no man sees, Nor any therein Daniel; I do hear
From the revolving year
A voice which cries:
‘All dies;
Lo, how all dies! O seer,
And all things too arise:
All dies, and all is born;
But each resurgent morn, behold, more near the Perfect Morn.’

Firm is the man, and set beyond the cast Of Fortune’s game, and the iniquitous hour, Whose falcon soul sits fast,
And not intends her high sagacious tour Or ere the quarry sighted; who looks past To slow much sweet from little instant sour, And in the first does always see the last.


His shoulder did I hold
Too high that I, o’erbold
Weak one,
Should lean thereon.

But He a little hath
Declined His stately path
And my
Feet set more high;

That the slack arm may reach
His shoulder, and faint speech
His unwithering hair.

And bolder now and bolder
I lean upon that shoulder
So dear
He is and near:

And with His aureole
The tresses of my soul
Are blent
In wished content.

Yes, this too gentle Lover
Hath flattering words to move her
To pride
By His sweet side.

Ah, Love! somewhat let be!
Lest my humility
Grow weak
When thou dost speak!

Rebate thy tender suit,
Lest to herself impute
Some worth
Thy bride of earth!

A maid too easily
Conceits herself to be
Those things
Her lover sings;

And being straitly wooed,
Believes herself the Good
And Fair
He seeks in her.

Turn something of Thy look,
And fear me with rebuke,
That I
May timorously

Take tremors in Thy arms,
And with contriv-ed charms
A love unsure.

Not to me, not to me,
Builded so flawfully,
O God,
Thy humbling laud!

Not to this man, but Man,–
Universe in a span;
Of the spheres conjoint;

In whom eternally
Thou, Light, dost focus Thee!–
Didst pave
The way o’ the wave;

Rivet with stars the Heaven,
For causeways to Thy driven
In its coming far

Unto him, only him;
In Thy deific whim
Didst bound
Thy works’ great round

In this small ring of flesh;
The sky’s gold-knotted mesh
Thy wrist
Did only twist

To take him in that net.–
Man! swinging-wicket set
The Unseen and Seen;

Lo, God’s two worlds immense,
Of spirit and of sense,
In this narrow bed;

Yea, and the midge’s hymn
Answers the seraphim
Thy body’s court!

Great arm-fellow of God!
To the ancestral clod
And to cherubin;

Bread predilectedly
O’ the worm and Deity!
O God’s clay-sealed Ark,

To praise that fits thee, clear
To the ear within the ear,
But dense
To clay-sealed sense.

All the Omnific made
When in a word he said,
He uttered THEE;

Thee His great utterance bore,
O secret metaphor
Of what
Thou dream’st no jot!

Cosmic metonymy!
Weak world-unshuttering key!
Seal of Solomon!

Trope that itself not scans
Its huge significance,
Which tries
Cherubic eyes.

Primer where the angels all
God’s grammar spell in small,
Nor spell
The highest too well.

Point for the great descants
Of starry disputants;
Of creation.

Thou meaning, couldst thou see,
Of all which dafteth thee;
So plain,
It mocks thy pain;

Stone of the Law indeed,
Thine own self couldst thou read;
Thy bliss
Within thee is.

Compost of Heaven and mire,
Slow foot and swift desire!
To have Yes, choose No;

Gird, and thou shalt unbind;
Seek not, and thou shalt find;
To eat,
Deny thy meat;

And thou shalt be fulfilled
With all sweet things unwilled:
So best
God loves to jest

With children small–a freak
Of heavenly hide-and-seek
For thy wayward wit,

Who art thyself a thing
Of whim and wavering;
When His wings pen thee;

Sole fully blest, to feel
God whistle thee at heel;
Drunk up
As a dew-drop,

When He bends down, sun-wise,
Intemperable eyes;
Most proud,
When utterly bowed.

To feel thyself and be
His dear nonentity–
Beyond human thought

In the thunder-spout of Him,
Until thy being dim,
And be
Dead deathlessly.

Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear
The nettle’s wrathful spear,
So slight
Art thou of might!

Rise; for Heaven hath no frown
When thou to thee pluck’st down,
Strong clod!
The neck of God.


‘Thou needst not sing new songs, but say the old.’–COWLEY.

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,
For I bear you whither tend I;
Ye are I: be undismayed!
I, the Ark that for the graven
Tables of the Law was made;
Man’s own heart was one, one Heaven, Both within my womb were laid.
For there Anteros with Eros
Heaven with man conjoin-ed was,– Twin-stone of the Law, Ischyros,
Agios Athanatos.

I, the flesh-girt Paradises
Gardenered by the Adam new,
Daintied o’er with sweet devices
Which He loveth, for He grew.
I, the boundless strict savannah
Which God’s leaping feet go through; I, the heaven whence the Manna,
Weary Israel, slid on you!
He the Anteros and Eros,
I the body, He the Cross;
He upbeareth me, Ischyros,
Agios Athanatos!

I am Daniel’s mystic Mountain,
Whence the mighty stone was rolled; I am the four Rivers’ fountain,
Watering Paradise of old;
Cloud down-raining the Just One am, Danae of the Shower of Gold;
I the Hostel of the Sun am;
He the Lamb, and I the Fold.
He the Anteros and Eros,
I the body, He the Cross;
He is fast to me, Ischyros,
Agios Athanatos!

I, the presence-hall where Angels
Do enwheel their plac-ed King–
Even my thoughts which, without change else, Cyclic burn and cyclic sing.
To the hollow of Heaven transplanted, I a breathing Eden spring,
Where with venom all outpanted
Lies the slimed Curse shrivelling. For the brazen Serpent clear on
That old fang-ed knowledge shone; I to Wisdom rise, Ischyron,
Agion Athanaton!

See in highest heaven pavilioned
Now the maiden Heaven rest,
The many-breasted sky out-millioned By the splendours of her vest.
Lo, the Ark this holy tide is
The un-handmade Temple’s guest,
And the dark Egyptian bride is
Whitely to the Spouse-Heart prest! He the Anteros and Eros,
Nail me to Thee, sweetest Cross! He is fast to me, Ischyros,
Agios Athanatos!

‘Tell me, tell me, O Belov-ed,
Where Thou dost in mid-day feed!
For my wanderings are reprov-ed,
And my heart is salt with need.’
‘Thine own self not spellest God in, Nor the lisping papyrus reed?
Follow where the flocks have trodden, Follow where the shepherds lead.’
He, the Anteros and Eros,
Mounts me in AEgyptic car,
Twin-yoked; leading me, Ischyros, Trembling to the untempted Far.

‘Make me chainlets, silvern, golden,
I that sow shall surely reap;
While as yet my Spouse is holden
Like a Lion in mountained sleep.’
‘Make her chainlets, silvern, golden, She hath sown and she shall reap;
Look up to the mountains olden,
Whence help comes with lioned leap.’ By what gushed the bitter Spear on,
Pain, which sundered, maketh one; Crucified to Him, Ischyron,
Agion Athanaton!

Then commanded and spake to me
He who framed all things that be;
And my Maker entered through me,
In my tent His rest took He.
Lo! He standeth, Spouse and Brother; I to Him, and He to me,
Who upraised me where my mother
Fell, beneath the apple-tree.
Risen ‘twixt Anteros and Eros,
Blood and Water, Moon and Sun,
He upbears me, He Ischyros,
I bear Him, the Athanaton!

Where is laid the Lord arisen?
In the light we walk in gloom;
Though the sun has burst his prison, We know not his biding-room.
Tell us where the Lord sojourneth,
For we find an empty tomb.
‘Whence He sprung, there He returneth, Mystic Sun,–the Virgin’s Womb.’
Hidden Sun, His beams so near us, Cloud enpillared as He was
From of old, there He, Ischyros,
Waits our search, Athanatos.

Who will give Him me for brother,
Counted of my family,
Sucking the sweet breasts of my Mother?– I His flesh, and mine is He;
To my Bread myself the bread is,
And my Wine doth drink me: see,
His left hand beneath my head is,
His right hand embraceth me!
Sweetest Anteros and Eros,
Lo, her arms He leans across;
Dead that we die not, stooped to rear us, Thanatos Athanatos.

Who is She, in candid vesture,
Rushing up from out the brine?
Treading with resilient gesture
Air, and with that Cup divine?
She in us and we in her are,
Beating Godward: all that pine,
Lo, a wonder and a terror!
The Sun hath blushed the Sea to Wine! He the Anteros and Eros,
She the Bride and Spirit; for
Now the days of promise near us,
And the Sea shall be no more.

Open wide thy gates, O Virgin,
That the King may enter thee!
At all gates the clangours gurge in, God’s paludament lightens, see!
Camp of Angels! Well we even
Of this thing may doubtful be,–
If thou art assumed to Heaven,
Or is Heaven assumed to thee!
Consummatum. Christ the promised, Thy maiden realm is won, O Strong!
Since to such sweet Kingdom comest, Remember me, poor Thief of Song!

Cadent fails the stars along:-
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.


Daughter of the ancient Eve,
We know the gifts ye gave–and give. Who knows the gifts which YOU shall give, Daughter of the newer Eve?
You, if my soul be augur, you
Shall–O what shall you not, Sweet, do? The celestial traitress play,
And all mankind to bliss betray;
With sacrosanct cajoleries
And starry treachery of your eyes,
Tempt us back to Paradise!
Make heavenly trespass;–ay, press in Where faint the fledge-foot seraphin,
Blest Fool! Be ensign of our wars,
And shame us all to warriors!
Unbanner your bright locks,–advance Girl, their gilded puissance,
I’ the mystic vaward, and draw on
After the lovely gonfalon
Us to out-folly the excess
Of your sweet foolhardiness;
To adventure like intense
Assault against Omnipotence!

Give me song, as She is, new,
Earth should turn in time thereto!
New, and new, and thrice so new,
All old sweets, New Sweet, meant you! Fair, I had a dream of thee,
When my young heart beat prophecy,
And in apparition elate
Thy little breasts knew wax-ed great, Sister of the Canticle,
And thee for God grown marriageable. How my desire desired your day,
That, wheeled in rumour on its way, Shook me thus with presentience! Then
Eden’s lopped tree shall shoot again: For who Christ’s eyes shall miss, with those Eyes for evident nuncios?
Or who be tardy to His call
In your accents augural?

Who shall not feel the Heavens hid
Impend, at tremble of your lid,
And divine advent shine avowed
Under that dim and lucid cloud;
Yea, ‘fore the silver apocalypse
Fail, at the unsealing of your lips? When to love YOU is (O Christ’s Spouse!) To love the beauty of His house;
Then come the Isaian days; the old
Shall dream; and our young men behold Vision–yea, the vision of Thabor mount, Which none to other shall recount,
Because in all men’s hearts shall be The seeing and the prophecy.
For ended is the Mystery Play,
When Christ is life, and you the way; When Egypt’s spoils are Israel’s right,
And Day fulfils the married arms of Night. But here my lips are still.
You and the hour shall be revealed, This song is sung and sung not, and its words are sealed.


‘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.

The windy trammel of her dress,
Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh; God’s breath they spake, with visibleness That stirred the raiment of her flesh:

And sensible, as her blown were,
Beyond the precincts of her form
I felt the woman flow from her–
A calm of intempestuous storm.

I failed against the affluent tide;
Out of this abject earth of me
I was translated and enskied
Into the heavenly-regioned She.

Now of that vision I bereaven
This knowledge keep, that may not dim:- Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven,
So ready is Heaven to stoop to him.

Which sets, to measure of man’s feet, No alien Tree for trysting-place;
And who can read, may read the sweet Direction in his Lady’s face.

And pass and pass the daily crowd,
Unwares, occulted Paradise;
Love the lost plot cries silver-loud, Nor any know the tongue he cries.

The light is in the darkness, and
The darkness doth not comprehend:
God hath no haste; and God’s sons stand Yet a Day, tarrying for the end.

Dishonoured Rahab still hath hid,
Yea still, within her house of shame, The messengers by Jesus bid
Forerun the coming of His Name.

The Word was flesh, and crucified,
From the beginning, and blasphemed: Its profaned raiment men divide,
Damned by what, reverenced, had redeemed.

Thy Lady, was thy heart not blind,
One hour gave to thy witless trust The key thou go’st about to find;
And thou hast dropped it in the dust.

Of her, the Way’s one mortal grace,
Own, save thy seeing be all forgot, That truly, God was in this place,
And thou, unbless-ed, knew’st it not.

But some have eyes, and will not see; And some would see, and have not eyes;
And fail the tryst, yet find the Tree, And take the lesson for the prize.


Alas, and I have sung
Much song of matters vain,
And a heaven-sweetened tongue
Turned to unprofiting strain
Of vacant things, which though
Even so they be, and throughly so,
It is no boot at all for thee to know, But babble and false pain.

What profit if the sun
Put forth his radiant thews,
And on his circuit run,
Even after my device, to this and to that use; And the true Orient, Christ,
Make not His cloud of thee?
I have sung vanity,
And nothing well devised.

And though the cry of stars
Give tongue before his way
Goldenly as I say,
And each from wide Saturnus to hot Mars He calleth by its name,
Lest that its bright feet stray;
And thou have lore of all,
But to thine own Sun’s call
Thy path disorbed hast never wit to tame; It profits not withal,
And my rede is but lame.

Only that, ‘mid vain vaunt
Of wisdom ignorant,
A little kiss upon the feet of Love My hasty verse has stayed
Sometimes a space to plant:
It has not wholly strayed,
Not wholly missed near sweet, fanning proud plumes above.

Therefore I do repent
That with religion vain,
And misconceiv-ed pain,
I have my music bent
To waste on bootless things its skiey-gendered rain: Yet shall a wiser day
Fulfil more heavenly way,
And with approv-ed music clear this slip I trust in God most sweet;
Meantime the silent lip,
Meantime the climbing feet.


Being a little dramatic sequence on the aspect of primitive girl- nature
towards a love beyond its capacities.


I.–In her eyes.

Cross child! red, and frowning so?
‘I, the day just over,
Gave a lock of hair to–no!
How DARE you say, my lover?’

He asked you?–Let me understand;
Come, child, let me sound it!
‘Of course, he WOULD have asked it, and– And so–somehow–he–found it.

‘He told it out with great loud eyes– Men have such little wit!
His sin I ever will chastise
Because I gave him it.

‘Shameless in me the gift, alas!
In him his open bliss:
But for the privilege he has
A thousand he shall miss!

‘His eyes, where once I dreadless laughed,