 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
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!’
| The works of Francis Thompson | |