 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
171
AD AMICAM
I
Dear Dove, that bear'st to my sole-labouring arkThe olive-branch of so long wishèd rest,
When the white solace glimmers through my dark
Of nearing wings, what comfort in my breast!
Oh, may that doubted day not come, not come,
When you shall fail, my heavenly messenger,
And drift into the distance and the doom
Of all my impermissible things that were!
Rather than so, now make the sad farewell,
Which yet may be with not too-painèd pain,
Lest I again the acquainted tale should tell
Of sharpest loss that pays for shortest gain.
Ah, if my heart should hear no white wings thrill
Against its waiting window, open still!
172
II
When from the blossoms of the noiseful dayUnto the hive of sleep and hushèd gloom
Throng the dim-wingèd dreams—what dreams are they
That with the wildest honey hover home?
Oh, they that have from many thousand thoughts
Stolen the strange sweet of ever-blossomy you,
A thousand fancies in fair-coloured knots
Which you are inexhausted meadow to.
Ah, what sharp heathery honey, quick with pain,
Do they bring home! It holds the night awake
To hear their lovely murmur in my brain;
And Sleep's wings have a trouble for your sake.
Day and you dawn together: for at end,
With the first light breaks the first thought—‘My friend!’
Both in its theme and in its imagery this sonnet was written as a variation of Mrs Meynell's verses ‘At Night.’
173
III
O friend, who mak'st that mis-spent word of ‘friend’Sweet as the low note that a summer dove
Fondles in her warm throat! And shall it end,
Because so swift on friend and friend broke love?
Lo, when all words to honour thee are spent,
And fling a bold stave to the old bald Time
Telling him that he is too insolent
Who thinks to rase thee from my heart or rhyme;
Whereof to one because thou life hast given,
The other yet shall give a life to thee,
Such as to gain, the prowest swords have striven,
And compassed weaker immortality:
These spent, my heart not stinteth in her breast
Her sweet ‘Friend! friend!’—one note, and loves it best.
174
IV
No, no, it cannot be, it cannot be,Because this love of close-affinèd friends
In its sweet sudden ambush toilèd me
So swift, that therefore all as swift it ends.
For swift it was, yet quiet as the birth
Of smoothest Music in a Master's soul,
Whose mild fans lapsing as she slides to earth
Waver in the bold arms which dare control
Her from her lineal heaven; yea, it was still
As the young Moon that bares her nightly breast,
And smiles to see the Babe earth suck its fill.
O Halcyon! was thine auspice not of rest?
Shall this proud verse bid after-livers see
How friends could love for immortality?
175
V
When that part heavenliest of all-heavenly youFirst at my side did breathe its blossomy air,
What lovely wilderment alarmed me through!
On what ambrosial effluence did I fare,
And comforts Paradisal! What gales came,
Through ports for one divinest space ajar,
Of rankèd lilies blown into a flame
By watered banks where walks of young Saints are!
One attent space, my trembling locks did rise
Swayed on the wind, in planetary wheel
Of intervolving sweet societies,
From wavèd vesture and from fledgèd heel
Odorous aspersion trailing. Then, alone
In her eyes' central glory, God took throne.
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