Poems | Page 5

Francis Thompson
Within a pool to Dian consecrate! Unveil
this spirit, lady, when you will, For unto all but you 'tis veiled still:
Unveil, and fearless gaze there, you alone, And if you love the
image--'tis your own!

A CARRIER SONG

I.
Since you have waned from us, Fairest of women! I am a darkened
cage Song cannot hymn in. My songs have followed you, Like birds the
summer; Ah! bring them back to me, Swiftly, dear comer! Seraphim,
Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The
harping of mortals!
II.
Where wings to rustle use, But this poor tarrier - Searching my spirit's
eaves - Find I for carrier. Ah! bring them back to me Swiftly, sweet
comer! Swift, swift, and bring with you Song's Indian summer!
Seraphim, Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn
The harping of mortals!
III.
Whereso your angel is, My angel goeth; I am left guardianless, Paradise
knoweth! I have no Heaven left To weep my wrongs to; Heaven, when
you went from us; Went with my songs too. Seraphim, Her to hymn,
Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!
IV.
I have no angels left Now, Sweet, to pray to: Where you have made
your shrine They are away to. They have struck Heaven's tent, And

gone to cover you: Whereso you keep your state Heaven is pitched over
you! Seraphim, Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet
learn The harping of mortals!
V.
She that is Heaven's Queen Her title borrows, For that she pitiful
Beareth our sorrows. So thou, Regina mi, Spes infirmorum; With all
our grieving crowned Mater dolorum! Seraphim, Her to hymn, Might
leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!
VI.
Yet, envious coveter Of other's grieving! This lonely longing yet
'Scapeth your reaving. Cruel! to take from a Sinner his Heaven! Think
you with contrite smiles To be forgiven? Seraphim, Her to hymn,
Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn The harping of mortals!
VII.
Penitent! give me back Angels, and Heaven; Render your stolen self,
And be forgiven! How frontier Heaven from you? For my soul prays,
Sweet, Still to your face in Heaven, Heaven in your face, Sweet!
Seraphim, Her to hymn, Might leave their portals; And at my feet learn
The harping of mortals!

SCALA JACOBI PORTAQUE EBURNEA

Her soul from earth to Heaven lies, Like the ladder of the vision,
Whereon go To and fro, In ascension and demission, Star-flecked feet
of Paradise.
Now she is drawn up from me, All my angels, wet-eyed, tristful, Gaze
from great Heaven's gate Like pent children, very wistful, That below a
playmate see.
Dream-dispensing face of hers! Ivory port which loosed upon me
Wings, I wist, Whose amethyst Trepidations have forgone me, -
Hesper's filmy traffickers!

GILDED GOLD

Thou dost to rich attire a grace, To let it deck itself with thee, And
teachest pomp strange cunning ways To be thought simplicity. But

lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold Translated
to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities
unthawed and chill. Therefore, albeit thou'rt stately so, In statelier state
thou us'dst to go.
Though jewels should phosphoric burn Through those night-waters of
thine hair, A flower from its translucid urn Poured silver flame more
lunar-fair. These futile trappings but recall Degenerate worshippers
who fall In purfled kirtle and brocade To 'parel the white Mother-Maid.
For, as her image stood arrayed In vests of its self-substance wrought
To measure of the sculptor's thought - Slurred by those added braveries;
So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own
essence parcel pure, - From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent
demurenesses, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven
vesture should subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should
show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But
better Fair I use to know.
The violet would thy dusk hair deck With graces like thine own
unsought. Ah! but such place would daze and wreck Its simple, lowly
rustic thought. For so advanced, dear, to thee, It would unlearn humility!
Yet do not, with an altered look, In these weak numbers read rebuke;
Which are but jealous lest too much God's master-piece thou shouldst
retouch. Where a sweetness is complete, Add not sweets unto the sweet!
Or, as thou wilt, for others so In unfamiliar richness go; But keep for
mine acquainted eyes The fashions of thy Paradise.

HER PORTRAIT

Oh, but the heavenly grammar did I hold Of that high speech which
angels' tongues turn gold! So should her deathless beauty take
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