Francis Thompson: Всі вірші поета

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Assumpta Maria

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!

by Francis Thompson

An Arab Love-Song

The hunchèd camels of the night

Trouble the bright

And silver waters of the moon.

The Maiden of the Morn will soon

Through Heaven stray and sing,

Star gathering.

Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,

Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!

by Francis Thompson

At Lord's

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,

Though my own red roses there may blow;

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,

Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,

And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,

And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host

As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,

by Francis Thompson

Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play

Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;

Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:

And some are sung, and that was yesterday,

And some are unsung, and that may be tomorrow.

Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,

Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:

And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,

And sweet is sweet, though purchased with sorrow.

by Francis Thompson

What shall I your true love tell?

What shall I your true love tell,

Earth forsaking maid?

What shall I your true love tell

When life's spectre's laid?

"Tell him that, our side the grave,

Maid may not believe

Life should be so sad to have,

That's so sad to leave!"

by Francis Thompson

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

by Francis Thompson

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,

by Francis Thompson

To A Snowflake

What heart could have thought you? —

Past our devisal

(O filigree petal!)

Fashioned so purely,

Fragilely, surely,

From what Paradisal

Imagineless metal,

Too costly for cost?

by Francis Thompson

The breaths of kissing night and day Were mingled in the eastern Heaven, Throbbing with unheard melody, Shook Lyra all its star-cloud seven. When dusk shrank cold, and light trod shy, And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey; And souls went palely up to the sky, And mine to Lucidè, There was no change in her sweet eyes Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine; There was no change in her deep heart Since last that deep heart knocked at mine. Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's, Wherein did ever come and go; The sparkle of the fountain drops From her sweet soul below. The chambers in the house of dream Are fed with so divine an air, That Time's hoar wings grow young therein, And they who walk there are most fair. I joyed for me, I joyed for her, Who with the Past meet girt about: Where her last kiss still warms the air, Nor can her eyes go out.