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Letter "F" » Francis Thompson
"So for thy spirit did devise
Its Maker seemly garniture,
Of its own essence parcel pure.–
From grave simplicities a dress,
And reticent demureness,
And love encinctured with reserve;
Which the woven vesture would 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."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Apparel
"I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Evening
"The Summer looks out from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars of July."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: July
"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."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Lilies
"The immortal could we cease to contemplate,
The mortal part suggests its every trait.
God laid His fingers on the ivories
Of her pure members as on smoothed keys,
And there out-breathed her spirit's harmonies."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Mortality
"Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Pain
"Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain And perish in our own."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Pain
"There is no expeditious road
To pack and label men for God,
And save them by the barrel-load.
Some may perchance, with strange surprise,
Have blundered into Paradise."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Paradise
"She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Parting
"Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.
With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,
And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine."
Author: Francis Thompson
About: Poppies
Pages: 1
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