 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
211
OF MY FRIEND
The moonlight cloud of her invisible beauty,
Shook from the torrent glory of her soul
Its aëry spray, hangs round her; love grows duty,
If you that angel-populous aureole
Have the glad power to feel;
As all our longings kneel
To the intense and cherub-wingèd stole
Orbing a painted Saint: and through control
Of this sweet faint
Veil, my unguessing Saint
Celestial ministrations sheds which heal.
Shook from the torrent glory of her soul
Its aëry spray, hangs round her; love grows duty,
If you that angel-populous aureole
Have the glad power to feel;
As all our longings kneel
To the intense and cherub-wingèd stole
Orbing a painted Saint: and through control
Of this sweet faint
Veil, my unguessing Saint
Celestial ministrations sheds which heal.
Now, Friend, short sweet outsweetening sharpest woes!
In wintry cold a little, little flame—
So much to me that little!—here I close
This errant song. O pardon its much blame!
Now my grey day grows bright
A little ere the night;
Let after-livers who may love my name,
And gauge the price I paid for dear-bought fame,
Know that at end,
Pain was well paid, sweet Friend,
Pain was well paid which brought me to your sight.
In wintry cold a little, little flame—
So much to me that little!—here I close
This errant song. O pardon its much blame!
Now my grey day grows bright
A little ere the night;
Let after-livers who may love my name,
And gauge the price I paid for dear-bought fame,
Know that at end,
Pain was well paid, sweet Friend,
Pain was well paid which brought me to your sight.
| The works of Francis Thompson | |