Francis Thompson
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Born in 1859 at Preston, Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop, medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond; there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore, the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem, which is unfortunately too long to quote, "It is one of the very few great odes of which our language can boast."
Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood in November, 1907.
DAISY
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O breath of the distant surf!— The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs; Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat all day. Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face. She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry. A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand. For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan, For we are born in other's pain, And perish in our own.
TO OLIVIA
I fear to love thee, Sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss; White flake of childhood, clinging so To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow At tenderest touch will shrink and go. Love me not, delightful child. My heart, by many snares beguiled, Has grown timorous and wild. It would fear thee not at all, Wert thou not so harmless-small. Because thy arrows, not yet dire, Are still unbarbed with destined fire, I fear thee more than hadst thou stood Full-panoplied in womanhood.
AN ARAB LOVE-SONG
The hunchèd camels of the night[3] 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! And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb. Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother; Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! Am I not thy father and thy brother, And thy mother? And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?