New Poems by Francis Thompson Part 16

UNTO THIS LAST.

A boy's young fancy taketh love Most simply, with the rind thereof; A boy's young fancy tasteth more The rind, than the deific core.

Ah, Sweet! to cast away the slips Of unessential rind, and lips Fix on the immortal core, is well; But heard'st thou ever any tell Of such a fool would take for food Aspect and scent, however good, Of sweetest core Love's orchards grow?

Should such a phantast please him so, Love where Love's reverent self denies Love to feed, but with his eyes, All the savour, all the touch, Another's--was there ever such?

Such were fool, if fool there be; Such fool was I, and was for thee!

But if the touch and savour too Of this fruit--say, Sweet, of you-- You unto another give For sacrosanct prerogative, Yet even scent and aspect were Some elected Second's share; And one, gone mad, should rest content With memory of show and scent; Would not thyself vow, if there sigh Such a fool--say, Sweet, as I-- Treble frenzy it must be Still to love, and to love thee?

Yet had I torn (man knoweth not, Nor scarce the unweeping angels wot Of such dread task the lightest part) Her fingers from about my heart.

Heart, did we not think that she Had surceased her tyranny?

Heart, we bounded, and were free!

O sacrilegious freedom!--Till She came, and taught my apostate will The winnowed sweet mirth cannot guess And tear-fined peace of hopefulness; Looked, spake, simply touched, and went.

Now old pain is fresh content, Proved content is unproved pain.

Pangs fore-tempted, which in vain I, faithless, have denied, now bud To untempted fragrance and the mood Of contrite heavenliness; all days Joy affrights me in my ways; Extremities of old delight Afflict me with new exquisite Virgin piercings of surprise,-- Stung by those wild brown bees, her eyes!

ULTIMUM.

Now in these last spent drops, slow, slower shed, Love dies, Love dies, Love dies--ah, Love is dead!

Sad Love in life, sore Love in agony, Pale Love in death; while all his offspring songs, Like children, versed not in death's chilly wrongs, About him flit, frighted to see him lie So still, who did not know that Love could die.

One lifts his wing, where dulls the vermeil all Like clotting blood, and shrinks to find it cold, And when she sees its lapse and nerveless fall Clasps her fans, while her sobs ooze through the webb-ed gold.

Thereat all weep together, and their tears Make lights like shivered moonlight on long waters.

Have peace, O piteous daughters!

He shall not wake more through the mortal years, Nor comfort come to my soul widow-ed, Nor breath to your wild wings; for Love is dead!

I slew, that moan for him: he lifted me Above myself, and that I might not be Less than myself, need was that he should die; Since Love that first did wing, now clogged me from the sky.

Yet lofty Love being dead thus pa.s.seth base-- There is a soul of n.o.bleness which stays, The spectre of the rose: be comforted, Songs, for the dust that dims his sacred head!

The days draw on too dark for Song or Love; O peace, my songs, nor stir ye any wing!

For lo, the thunder hushing all the grove, And did Love live, not even Love could sing.

And, Lady, thus I dare to say, Not all with you is pa.s.sed away!

For your love taught me this:-'tis Love's true praise To be, not staff, but writ of worthy days; And that high worth in love unfortunate Should still remain it learned in love elate.

Beyond your star, still, still the stars are bright; Beyond your highness, still I follow height; Sole I go forth, yet still to my sad view, Beyond your trueness, Lady, Truth stands true.

This wisdom sings my song with last firm breath, Caught from the twisted lore of Love and Death, The strange inwoven harmony that wakes From Pallas' straying locks twined with her aegis-snakes.

'On him the unpet.i.tioned heavens descend, Who heaven on earth proposes not for end; The perilous and celestial excess Taking with peace, lacking with thankfulness.

Bliss in extreme befits thee not, until Thou'rt not extreme in bliss; be equal still: Sweets to be granted think thy self unmeet Till thou have learned to hold sweet not too sweet.'

This thing not far is he from wise in art Who teacheth; nor who doth, from wise in heart.

ENVOY.

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 unsung, and that may be to-morrow.

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 purchas-ed with sorrow.

Go, songs, and come not back from your far way: And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow, Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day, Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.